"Through the Silent Night"

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 74, Issue 197, 21 August 1931, Page 10

"Through the Silent Night"

SERIAL STORY

BY

WILLIAM GULDOTT

CHAPTER I. Dolores Smith leant panting against the door. For a moment the whole room seemed to go round, and she put her hand up to her eyes. As a a rule, she was strong and clearheaded, but now—she shivered as she listened for any sound which meant his following her upstairs. But no, nothing stirred in the silence of the gloomy house. Trembling slightly she locked her bedroom door, anil with swift, -sure steps in the darkness went over to the dressing-table, found the matches, and lit the gas' Once again she crossed to the door and listened. Then, leaning against the wall for a moment she thought > hard, her delicately marked brows knitted, and little lines of worry appeared at the corners of her sensitive mouth. Her face cleared a little at last, and she relaxed the tense position. She pushed back the heavy , waves of red-gold hair from her temples, with a characteristic little gesture of amused annoyance. She bathed her face in the cool water, and with a few little touches was herself again, cool, collected, and charming, ; with the fresh bloom of youth and , perfect health. The little lines of . worry and uncertainty had given piace ; to a look of resolution, touched with , excitement and a spirit of adventu:;:. The way was clear. There was but one. She would go away somewhere ■ where she could live, -away from the step-father who raged and swore below. He had shouted at her that she could clear out, and she wouid do so. Dully she found herself wondering why it had never occurred to her before. No one wanted her now that her mother was dead. The j tears welled up as she thought of the timid gentle mother whom she had j adored, and who only three short weeks ago had died. That was be- • fore they had come to live in this " gloomy house at Brighton, she and her stepfather. They had uo relations. no connections, uo friends, that she knew of. She shuddered as -she fancied she heard a sound coming from the din-ing-room below, and her stepfather's words came back to her. “You're no child of mine. Get out —and keep yourself! You’ve got &, hundred pounds a year of your

mother’s, why should 1 keep you?' She brushed her hand across her forehead as If to refuse even the recollection of the coarse words which followed Who waa she ? Who really had her father been? She had no clue., her little timid mother bad always refused io tell her. "It’s better not. Doris darling,’’ ahe used to say. “There’s nothing to gam. Your stepfather—l am afraid, always afraid!” But one night by the flickering light of a candle Doris had been wakened j to And her mother standing by her 1 bedside, tears streaming down her weary face as she stealthily thrust a packet Into her hands Even now Doris could hear the low frightened voice choked with sobs “It’s all right, darling. I’m aE right. IV® nothing. Keep this, don’t open It—only when I'm dead. They’re yours—he doesn't know—hide it..’' And she was gone again. Dutifully the girl had packed away the parcel amongst the linen in a deep trunk, and only now did she suddenly remember it. She must take that away with her, anyway, she ' thougn;, as she quickly gathered a few things together and neatly placed them in a little dressing-case. She took from the dressing-table her mother's photograph in its heavy silver frame, and her little old-fashioned ivory-cased prayer-book. She possessed little Jewellery, but the few I things she had were good, just as the simple coat and skirt she was wearing was of fine quality and cut, for her stepfather knew the value of appearances, and did not allow his meanness to be suspected by outsiders, i Then she searched amongst the soft I linen in her trunk until she found the | square box wrapped in white paper. ’ For a moment she looked at it. and ! hesitated. Her imaginative nature

prompted her to open It, but there was no time for it now A qualm shot through her as she realised that until now she had forgotten it altogether. Perhaps it should have been opened Immediately on her mother’s death. Any way, it must wait now. She wondered nevertheless what it contained. Perhaps the secret of her birth, and she would at last learn her father’s name. Her quick sense of humour, even at such a moment, laughed away the melodramatic idea that he might turn out to be the conventional lord of Action, but at any rate, she thought with satisfaction, her name would be different from her stepfather’s, and she could at least hold up her head. But there was no time to be lost. She slipped the parcel Into the dressing-case. There was no room for anything else. Crossing the room noiselessly, she went to the window and leant out. The moon was shining faintly through the still September night, and -she could see that her bicycle was still leaning up agalnt the wall outside the kitchen door where she had left it. One little dash across the back garden, through the door into the lane between the houses, and she would be free. Quiet as a mouse she crept downstairs and made her way through the deserted servants’ quarters. She was thankful that the last of them had left that day, refusing any longer to put up with such a master. As she took hold of the handies of her machine her heart stopped and she caught her breath, startled by the sharp burr of an electric bell. Someone was at the front door. Her step-father might shout to her to go and open it. It must, be nearly eleven. Who could it be at such an hour? The bell rang again. Doris did not wait, she dashed panic-stricken across the short patch of grass to the door in the wall, pulling it to behind her, not daring to latch it. To Jump on her bicycle and ride away for dear life was the work of a second. Madly she scorched down the steep hill to the brightly lighted corner. A policeman stopped her. “Your light’s out, Miss,’’ he called somewhat gruffly. Doris dismounted. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I—-what time Is it?” she added rather In consequently. The officer smiled, for her voice was charming and h!s masculine eye decided that she was, too, besides she was evidently a lady. “It’* some

time after lightmg-up time, Miss,” he answered, not without a touch of humour. “That clock over there is striking eleven. Allow me, Miss.” Doris thanked him gratefully. She sped along the front, on and on, breathing the pure fresh night air, her brain clearing as the exercise calmed her over-strained nerves. As the lights of Shoreham came into view she slowed down, dimly remembering her mother saying they had some cousins who always spent the summer there in Bungalow Town. The name of their bungalow was Rose something-or-other. She would ask someone, and find it, and then throw herself on their mercy for the night. Through the old town and over the toll bridge into the quiet of Bungalow Town she rode. The low rows of little houses were all curiously alike in the night which seemed to be growing darker and darker. No one was about. Numerous boards were to be seen outs: 1° the bungalows. Evidently thr season was nearly over. She had no: thought of that. from her niachine shp stood looking around, a little at a loss what to do. It seemed a hopeless task to find any particular house at such an hour, the mo-." so that, she was uncertain of the name. Slv; never could have Imagined there would be row after row of bungalows stretching for miles along the beach like this. To add to her discomfiture a few heavy rain drops were falling. She looked up at, the gathering clouds. There was going to be a storm; the heavy night brooded 111. In the distance there was the muffled rumble of thunder. The girl shuddered. All her life she had a.ways been a little afraid of lightning and storms. Her eyes searched around for a possible shelter. The garden gate of the nearest bungalow stood open and on the woodwork of the house “To Let” bills were fixed. Without, a second thought she ran her bicycle up to tlie path and took shelter under the dark verandah. She felt she would give anything if only the door of the closely-shuttered house were open and, half hoping, tried it. To her surprise it yielded to the turn of the handle A flash of lightning almost drove her In. lighting up a large sit-

ting-room with a white vivid light .Somewhat frightened Doris stood i hesitating in the doorway. “Is anyone here?” she called out. There was no answer, only the noise of the pattering raindrops on the fiai roof outside. She glanced about her fearfully. Of the two unknown dangers the empty bungalow fright- . ened her least. Hurriedly undoing the bicycle lamp sbe went in and closed the door. She flashed the little lamp around the room. It was. very ordinarily furnished. It gave one the Impression that the last tenant hai left in a hurry for -cushions were lying about anyhow' on the deep lounge, and. old magazines and newspapers littered the place. There was a candle on the table, and when she hud lit it she explored the kitchen and the two dismantled bedrooms. Phere was no sign of anyone. Thankful for the shelter from the storm, she sank on the lounge, dimly realising that she was very tired. She unpinned her simple hat. and then opened the dressing-case and took her mother’s parcel in her hands. But the excitement she had been through and the long ride had been too much for her; physical exhaustion overtook her; she dragged her feet up on to the lounge and, curling up amongst the cushions, lay still. As her eyes closed a medley of rushing thoughts poured through her brain in which were strangely-mingled parents, bicycles. and empty bungalows, but above all an eleotrio bell which rang and rang as though someone were trying to get in as she fied into the night, and sank into a dreamless sleep. CHAPTER If, John Douglas Smith had slammed the door after his step -daughter when she ran from the room, with a Jeering laugh. A man of about forty-flve, not without a certain pretence to

good looks of a rather vulgar type, 1 he had terrorised his late wife with ■ his fits of violent rage. As a business man he was well known amongst a certain financial set whose dealings were more tha&i doubtful. In short, John Douglas Smith, under a some- ; what more pretentious name, lent monpy on note of hand alone. If you were fool enough, or hard-pres-sed enough you went to him. Ho ' had made a good thing out of the various Ash his net had entoiled, and now, since the move to Brighton, had almost retired from the business, of which his wife and daughter had been in complete ignorance, keeping on: only a few cases which were a permanent source of Income to him. He poured himself out a stiff brandy and soda, and with a gesture of contemptuou« dismissal sat down st the < writing-table and look up some papers lying there. As he did so th< ! tall grandfather's clock in the corner chimed out half-past ten. The money-lender looked up. She’ll be here any moment now,” he murmured. For a few minute# he sat there smoking composedly. Then the front door bell sounded far off in the kit- ! chen, clear through the still summer night. He got up and, walking tc the mirror over the mantelpiece, 1 straightened his tie, and looked criti--1 cally at himself, smoothing his hair. ‘ Then, apparently satisfied, went out ■ Into the hall. The bell rang again. “In a hurry,” he said smiling, but hl» face was quiet and serious as ht ’ opened the door. “I arn so sorry they kept you waiting, but the ser- ■ vants seem to be deaf, and my daughter is upstairs, so I came myself.” A young girl was standing on thesteps. The light from the hall lamp caught the yellow sheen of her hair. Her black gown seemed by its sheer simplicity to emphasise her distinction. Her Angers were playing nervously with a little thin gold chain, to which her purse was attached. “You told me to come late tonight,” she said breathlessly. “I got your note when I called this morning; all day long I’ve, been wandering about to pass the time. Can I hav« the papers quickly? I must catch th« 11.5 back to town.’* “You have plenty of time. I will not keep you a moment. Our business can be quickly settled,” he answered, as ha led the way into the study.