Our Serial Story

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume LXXXII, Issue 19438, 26 October 1925, Page 10

Our Serial Story

HER DAY OF ADVERSITY

By

MRS PATRICK MACGILL.

(All Rights Reserved.)

Ail the characters in this story are purely fictitious. 1 CHAPTER I. HELP IN TROUBLE Carol Oliver took her check from I tho waitress with a faint smile, and, I wondering how much longer she could ; stay in the big crowded, ice-cooled | restaurant without becoming conspicuous, settled back in her chair to listen •to the efforts of the highly efficient band which is part of the equipment : of the new Lyons establishment in I Piccadilly Circus. ! It was so wonderful, and still so i new to the young girl who was revelling in London for the first time. Carol was alone at her table, and, j as she leaned forward to watch the ! amusing antics of the “eccentric” conductor, her eyes lit up with merry . laughter, and her little, shabbily shod foot tapped the floor in time to. the music, for Youth, Laughter, and Music arc inseparable companions unless Life be fraught with some tragedy infinitely greater than Poverty, which, after all, is a comparative matter. If Carol had possessed enough to have purchased something more exciting than a f cvp of tea and a bun —for instance, one of those delicious ice-crdam sodas j that everybody but herself seemed to

be sucking through a wisp of straw—she would have felt inordinately extravagant, and extremely pleased with herself. Several interested glances were cast in her direction by young men in tennis flannels, who had dropped in for a cup of tea before journeying out to tho suburbs for their game. And Carol Oliver was worth a second glance. Her small, heart-shaped, face, wide, dark grey eyes, with black delicately tirched eyebrows, tho broad, intelligent forehead and sweetly curved lips, all made up a picture that nine out of ten artists would have rushed to perpetuate on canvas. Carol Goes Home.

After h few minutes, tho slim, boyish little figure—not yet fully developed, for Carol was barely twenty — passed through the big glass doors, and the little boy attendant in tho chocolate suit grinned in response to Carol’s smile of thanks—generally ho was passed without so much as a glance—and ho wished that ho could h'ave bought her a big box of chocolates, or that huge, lop-eared white rabbit that she seemed to admire so greatly as sho made her way past tho tempting sweet counters without purchasing anything.

It was a long Tube journey to Bermondsey, where Carol lived with her mother, and, away from the infectious gaiety of the West-end, with its welldressed, hurrying crowds, and attractive shop windows, some of the happy sparkle died out of the lovely grey eyes, and, as the young girl turned into Popwell Court, and the mingled smells of fish, fruit, vegetables, and over-warm humanity camo to her nostrils,* she sighed a little, and wished that sho and her mother could afford to live in la different locality.

Directly she turned her key in the lock and closed the door of the cheap little tenement house behind her, a sense of oppression which presently resolved itself into a panic of fear took possession of her, and she sped up tho three flights of dingy stairs leading to the single room which sho and her mother had occupied for the last six months.

It did not need tho loudly weeping woman from tho next room, nor the child whoso crying was the reflex of her own emotion, to tell Carol what had happened.. Her wonderful dark grey eyes irbveiled over the woman’s untidy head to the white, terribly still figure on the bed. lying with a peaceful smile that the worn face had never known in life—at least, not within Carol’s 1 memory. The Struggle Ended.

She hjffl given up the struggle. Life had hurt her so much and so often that Death must have sounded like a friend m her ears. Some such thought was forming itself in the chaotic whirl which represented Carol Oliver’s mind at that moment.

“Pore Mrs Oliver! As nice a little body as ever I knew in my life, and quite the lady, let the others of the ‘(•use say what they like abo.it er. Bringing ’er in :% cup o’ tea, I was, wasn’t I. Ernie?” This to the tousleheadec. child, who had left off crying to sib re curiously at Carol, who, white as a marble statue, and as rigid, wa_still looking fixedly at the. lifeless form on the bed, as if waiting for a miracle to happen —one that would restore to her the beloved little mother for whom she had meant to woik so hard,' for whose sake she had so fiercely coveted wealth, and all the softness and ease of living made pos-

sible by its possession. “I didn’t got no umwer, so I opened the door, an I there she was, the poor dear, lying like a baby, as you see her now. ‘ The doctor ’appened to be up the street in Mrs Wilkin’s seeing to her boy that’s met with the accident, so I sent Mrs Turner’s Lizzie for ’im. It was ’eart failure, and ’e’s left the death certificate. ’Ere it is.” A piece of paper was thrust into Carol s hand, and the girl took it mechanically and even glanced at it with dry, unseeing eyes before sho laid it beside the cup of tea that her neighbour had placed on the bare deal table which stood beneath the window. “She was so tired,” she murmured faintly. . Carol seemed to be in a Kind or trance; the volubly sympathetic neighbour made a tentative movement to take the pathetic little figure m her arms, but just then Carol slipped to her knees beside the bed, and in that moment mvstery and awe laid their shadowy "fingers on her shining head, so that, contending herself with an offer to go with Carol to buy her “black” the woman withdrew, closing tho door softlv behind her. The afternon shadows lengthened into night, and the stars were shining before‘Carol got up from her knees, feeling ns though every nerve in her body had been bruised and mangled, every fibre of her being crying out in revolt against tho terrifying loneliness that must henceforth be her lot. Even the stark misery that showed in her voung face could not rob Carol Oliver of the loveliness which, in nn appropriate setting, would have marked her out from other girls, as a rose stands out from a bunch of field dai-

The slight boyish figure was shaken with sobs as she attempted to chafe some life into tho white, worn-looking hands that lay so limply and quietly within her own.

An only child, the daughter of a young schoolmaster, who had died when she was a baby, leaving exactly twenty pounds for his widow’, Carol hiad always been a lonely child, for her mother ’s’ health made it imperative that she should live by the sea, and her early youth had been spent in other people’s houses "where a widow with one child was not objected to as a household help. In between her attendances at the various village schools her mother educated her with the help of the huge box of books belonging to her dead husband, from which neither poverty or inconvenience of transporting them from one situation to another could ever part her. French and German Carol could speak and read fluently by the time she was fourteen and old enough to be of some help to her mother in her situations.

But a sudden and very painful illness ate up every penny of their savings before Carol induced her mother to go into la hospital, which discharged her after a month, and then had come the descent into Popwell Court, Bermondsey, where they had lived by selling and pawning everything of the least value that they possessed. Straightening her slim young back, Carol looked around the dingy, shadowfilled “second floor back, furnished,” and shuddered.

It was not only her mother’s death, her own despair, and the hopelessness of her miserable surroundings that caused the shudder —it had suddenly dawned upon her consciousness th'at the dead must be buried and she had not a single sixpence in tho world—fourpenco was Uli that she possessed. Her head sank; her body seemed to shrivel and grow old with a sense of her own futility.

“God in heaven, is there any pity for such as I?” she cried, las she rose to her feet, and gazed out of the window, which looked over a seemingly sea of slated roofs and tall black chimney-pots. The Personal Touch.

It was then she was looking over her mother’s poor little collection of private papers—her marriage certificate, her own birth certificate, and the letters that she had written to her mother on the rare occasions when she had been sent away for a holiday—that the great idea came to her. At the very bottom of the little box was a money-lender’s circular, which in no way differed from the hundreds that are composed and sent out every day as bait for possible clients. “I lend money without security of any sort, on your written promise to repay. Any sum from £5 to £50,000 advanced same day without any inquiry or preliminary fee.” It was the heart-warming personal touch about the concluding sentence that caused Carol Oliver to embark upon

the adventure which was to lead to the sounding of every emotion known to humanity—hate, fear, triumph, sorrow unbounded, and love so passionate and glorious that beside it all else paled into nothingness. “If you are in any trouble that money can relieve, come and see me; there can be no h'arin in an interview.”

The circular was signed “Yours very truly, Jacob Stone,” and bore two addresses, one in Finsbury Pavement and the other in Finsbury Park. Carol bent over the terribly still figure upon the bed, and pressed her warm young lips upon the ice-cold forehead before she crushed her black straw hat down over the golden-brown curls that clustered so prettily together on her little head, and, with. ft prayer in her heart, set out for the office of Jacob Stone, in Finsbury Pavement. CHAPTER IT. I O U £lO “A young lady to see you, sir. Seems to be very worried. Told her you never saw clients at your private house, and gave her the office address. But sho wouldn’t go away.” Jacob Stone’s man, Bundy, always delivered himself with the suddenness of ia small boy jerking peas from a pop-gun; but he was generally as calm as a mill-pond in summer, so that-when he appeared to be suppressing some inward excitement, Jacob Stone —Frankenstein -was his correct patronymic, but he found it made for better business to adopt an English name —looked up from his evening paper with deviated brows. “What’s sho like, Bundy? Give any name?” ho inquired, darting a gimlet-like glance into the man’s shifty eyes.

Bundy’s voice could almost be said to quaver with excitement as he replied, “I’ll take my dying oath I’ve never seen a prettier girl iu all my life.

His master laughed—a coarse, loud laugh that grated unpleasantly upon the ear, and exactly matched the man. Jacob Stone was a London shark of the worst possible type, preying upon rich and poor alike, showing no mercy and expecting none, engaged in half-a-dozen illicit occupations, but running no personal risks, and his whole being would have shrieked tho unpleasant truth at a cool, critical observer. But Jacob Stone’s clients were never cool and they could not afford to be critical; their facilities wore generally numbed by their needs and suspicion was allayed by tho sympathetic manner which he 'always assumed until he had landed his fish, as he termed tho clinching of an agreement which was iniquitous in its advantages to himsel f. Tn the handsomely furnished room in which she was at that moment waiting. Carol was striving desperately hard to screw up her courtage to the point which was necessary before she could ask this man—an utter stranger —to lend her the ten pounds with

which to bury her mother, if she was not to rest in a pauper’s grave. “Mr Stone will see you, Miss. Will you follow me?” Carol started up from her seat, her pale face flushed with a delicate rose colour that heightened her beauty into something almost spiritual as she forced herself to follow in the wake of Jacob Stone’s servant, her wholesoul shrinking from the task ahead of her.

Jacob Stone took one swift, comprehensive glance at the lithe young figure. vivid with the urge of youth, hut with eyes dark with pain, age-old eyes that seemed to be seeking and seeking. He rose to his feet. “Good evening,” ho said, in his silkiest, most sympathetic voice. Carol inclined her lovely head and opened her lips to speak, but no sound came. Her mouth felt parched, and her tongue seemed dried like an enormous dried fig between her teeth. “Don’t be frightened Miss—or?” The moneylender made a significant pa,use, but ho took the slender arm in his hand and gently led Clarol to a big armchair opposite his own. whore ho

could wtatch every shade of expression on her mobile little face. “My name is Carol Oliver. T—oh—thank you so much for seeing mo!’’ said Carol, looking very much like a delightful but troubled child, as she sank far back into the luxurious chair which almost engulfed her small, slender form. The Character Reader The smallness, the sweetness, nf the girl, and the undoubted innocence which rtadiated from every feature of the little face made an instant appeal to the business side of Jacob Stone. Ho had never been known to err in his estimate of a character, and he saw at once how ho could use Carol, how he could make Tier worth anything withiu reason that she cared to ask.

“Now tell ine, what is your difficulty? Been playing bridge too much lately, and overstepped papa’s dress allowence, eh?”

The shrewd eyes had taken in with merciless accuracy the worn serge frock, the cheap straw hat, and the patch on the side of the low one-bar shoe. Jacob Stone could gauge to a shilling the financial position of his visitor, but of her social position ho was not quite sure. Carol’s personality might have belonged to any of the highly-priced clients that §pmetimes visited him in his office. A wraith of a smile hovered hround Carol’s lips as she replied “I have no father, Mr Stone, and I have never played bridge in my life. I am a working girl.”

Jacob Stone settled himself more, comfortably in his chair He was beginning to understand. His voice was still sympathetic, but more busi-ness-like ns he asked a few brief, brisk questions.

“Any brothers, or —er —male relatives at all?” “None,” was Carol’s instant reply. “No young man, or prospect of one?” he persisted, his hawk like eyes boring into Carol’s as he spoke. Carol shook her head. “I have not a relative in the world with whom I am in touch, and I am in grefat trouble, Mr Stone, or I would | npt have the impertinence to come to i you a perfect stranger, to ask for money.” There was a catch in the young voice that would have made an immediate appeal to almost any other man than Jacob Stone. “How' much do you Want, and what security have you to offer?” he asked bluntly, coming to the point a toncc. A look of anguished fear showed in Carol’s grey eyes; her voice sounded cracked and old to her own ears as she named a bigger sum than she had ever possessed in all her life. “I want ten pounds, please,” she said, in the voice which seined to belong to a stranger. The moneylender nodded. “And the security?” he asked i suavely. For answer Carol produced his own 1 circular. ' “You—you say here that you do | not njind about a security—that a written promise to repay is sufficient," she faltered. Jacob Slone smiled tolerantly, and spoke as one speaks to *a pretty but , ignorant child. “It is sufficient if you can get a friend to back your signature—that is to guarantee to repay the loan if you fail to do so,” he explained. A sudden panic took possession ot Carol, driving everything from her mind but the fear that, after 'all, she was not going to got the money. “Oh please, you must lend me ten pounds—you must!” she cried, jump i ing up from her seat and coming over to his side so that she was very near—temptingly near, in all the glory of her youth and exquisite beautv. The moneylender experienced a wild desire to catch the little slender body in his arms, to bruise the soft mouth with kisses; but he fought it down. A lonely girl as lovely as Carol Oliver might bo worth much more to him than the gratification of the whim of a moment. Value for Money “You must realise, Miss Oliver, that a. business like mine could not possibly bo carried out on purely sentimental lines. If I have no security for the money that I lend you —nothing of value to sell, and nobody’s promise 1o repay if anything happens to you —b street accident, for example—where do I come in?” “Oh. but nothing will happen, nothing sh'all happen! T will work for the money if you’ll let me repay yon in that way! You have an office, haven’t you ? ’ ’ Without waiting for an affirmation of what she already knew. Carol hurried on almost breathless in her

anxiety to convince Jacob Stone of hei ability to work. “I can speak and write French and German, I am very good at figures, and I dan operate a typewriter. I can’t do shorthand, but I’ll study night and day if you want me to, and L’U guarantee to'be able to write it in ten I Jacob Stone did not at once reply, i His cool, apprising eye once more took in the fair picture of English girlhood that faced him so proudly, and begged so earnestly and sweetly for the loan of a mere £lO. . Carol’s suggestion that she shouiTl work in his office had given him an \ idea. I He drew paper and pen towards him. “I !un getting you to sign an lOU for £lO, which is to be repaid by your working for one month in my office, starting from next Monday morning. Mind you, even now, I am taking a risk —a big risk. I hope you understand. .Miss Oliver?” Jacob Stone looked up, pen poised in air, in order to let a momentary I silence give due weight to his words, j But he need not have troubled thua * to impress Carol. I Her magnificent grey eyes were | shining as if a light had been placed I behind each of them, and her whole ' ! vivid, appealing personality seemed I afire with a very passion of gratitude. I ■ “Oh, I’ll never forget you. Mr Stone —never!” You don’t know how much you have placed me in your debt. It s more than just money to me—it's—” Carol broke off', afraid to trust her- ’ self nny further. “I. understand, Miss Oliver. Li fa ' is not all roses for a lonely little girl r in London who has no friends. Bui ? * you’ve found a friend now, in me, | Don’t forget that,” and Carol left th< i | big house in Finsbury Park thanking - * whatever fate sent her there that r I night, in her ignorance firmly con- - vinced of the fact that the whole vast f [ city of London held no finer. more j generous nmn than Jacob Stone, the 1 i biggest, most unscrupulous shark that r ever fished in the troubled waters of li' human misery. \ i (To be continued) r '