“Through the Silent Night”
SERIAL STORY
BY
WILLIAM GULDOTT
CHAPTER IM.— -(Continued.) She opened the only cupboard, and in a corner found a tin of condensed milk, ' biscuits, sugar, cups, and saucers. Joyfully she fell upon them, for a very healthy hunger had taken possession of her. Breakfast was now o&iy a matter of moments. “I suppose this is stealing, really,” Doris said aloud, laughing as she filled her cup. ‘‘But I can't help it. I’m so hungry* I’d pay, only I don't know who the owner is.” An idea came to her. She ran into the sitting-room and, cautiously opening the front door a few inches, looked at the other side. On it would be, at least, the name of the bungalow. She gasped, a little taken back as she read: “J.E. His house.” It was an extraordinary name for a bungalow. His house, too! The idea that the bungalow might belong to a man had not occurred to her. Somehow she had taken it for granted it belonged to a family. But “J.E. His House.” absurd as the name might be, was perfectly plain in its meaning. What ought she to do? She shrugged her shoulders resignedly. After an, it couldn't be helped, and “J.E.,” whoever he was, certainly wasn't there. It couldn’t help things if she left her breakfast unfinished. He wasn’t likely to disturb her. Probably he wouldn't, be back till next year, when the summer season commenced. So she finished her tea, sitting happily on the kitchen table, and halfshyly enjoying the situation. It was only half-past six, but she thought she might as well begin collecting her things. It was still rather gloomy in the sitting-room, owing to the closed shutters, but light enough nevertheless. Once more she held in her hands her mother’s parcel. She had still plenty of time to open it. She would at least see what was inside. With fingers that trembled slightly she cut the string and stripped the paper off. Opening it, she found a letter addressed to her, and her eyes filled as she recognised her mother’s writing. There was a little tissuepaper covered packet, a bundle of letters tied round with faded blue ribbon, and a flat Jewel case. Doris sat s-taring at th® objects spread out before her. Now the time had come, she half-dreaded to open the letter she held in her hand. What would this message from her dear dead mother bring her?—joy or sorrow?—pleasure or pain? She gently laid it aside and 4ook up the little parcel, unwrapping the tissue paper, disclosing an Ivory miniature surrounded by pearls, Doris examined eagerly the exquisite laughing f&oc which the artist’s hand had so cunningly depicted. It was not her mother’s face: she wondered who it might be. The jewel case looked ?. little shabby, and was certainly of old-fashioned style. Within it, resting on somewhat worn and fadedl green velvet, were a single row oi pearls, and two old-fashioned, heavj gold brooches, set with rather large stones. She took up the string of pearls and looked at it rather disconsolately. They were evidently not real. Pearls that size, and so well matched, would be worth a great deal, and her mother would never have dared to keep them from her grasping husband, but the little clasp was curious, a monogram in diamonds or paste, and unlike any sli3 had ever seen before. Replacing thnecklace, she closed the jewel oas< with a snap, and put It in her -dress-ing-case, and then she opened the letter. It was written on odd halfsheets of notepaper. Doris dashed gway her tears and read—
My darling Doris, When you open this I shall be gone, and I think it will be soon. I think, dearest, you ought to know that you are not my daughter. Oh, you will still love me a little, when lam gone, won’t you? I have tried to make you happy, and we have been happy, haven’t we, you and I? Listen, dear. Your father bad been married before when I married him, and he had a little baby daughter—you. His wife—your mother, of course—ran away when you were only one year old; she was not worthy of him—l need not go into details. Your dear father only lived ten years after this, and I—feeling very lonely and sad—married again. Your name, of course, is not Dolores Smith, but is the same as your father’s. His name— She started up. Just as she was going to turn to the second sheet, she heard footsteps pass the house. Cramming everything into the dress-ing-case, she snapped the catches to. .Xs she leant over it, a paper on the table caught her eye. It was not there last night, of that she was certain. Who had left it there, and when? She took it, up and read it. Dear Princess, —For I'm sure you are one, since only princesses have glorious red-gold hair, and look lovely sleeping with their mouths open “Oh, I don’t!” exclaimed Doris, furiously. “How dare he? He’ll say I snore next, I suppose.” She read on: — so you must be a princess, and I am more than glad that my poor house has been able to afford you shelter from the storm. I wish I knew your name. Will you write it? I shall not come back to the bungalow till 12 noon, so you needn’t see me if you don’t want to. but do leave a word for me, Princess; besides, it will really be quicker, for we are going to meet again sometime, so there's no use in delaying things, is there? Obedient to your wishes, J. E. P.S. —I think I ought to tell you. Princess, that your address is on your bicycle, and I thought I ought to read it, as if you left anything I could send it on for you. with which weak excuse I again sign myself, your devoted J. E: Doris laid down the note with a little gesture of despair. Here was a nice set-out. He knew where she Lived, and had seen her Initials above the address. She read the note again, and could not repress a smile. It certainly was rather impellent® tout
there was a note of respect in it. nevertheless, which did not escape her. Somehow she did not feel afraid of “J.E,,” whoever he was, he was* a gentleman. Hastily she tore off a scrap of paper and scribbled: — Thank you so much. One day perhaps I’ll explain—that is, if we meet, of course. I oughtn’t to have stolen breakfast, but even princesses have to eat, and I was hungry. She laid it on the table where i! would be seen, and catching up her dressing-case, went boldly out of the front door. Fortune favoured her. No one was in sight. She jumped on her machine and in a few minutes was riding through sleepy Shoreham to the station. A train was due for London as she arrived, and she had only just time to get her bicycle put in and herself comfortably settled, before it started. She glanced out of the window. Close to the bookstall a man was standing, apparently reading the early morning papers. She looked at the tall, lithe figure indifferently. He was in flannels, and had evidently been bathing. The sun burnished the thick brown hair, which s\v»;pt back from his temples. She could not help noticing that ho was exceedingly good-looking, his faoe was so clean cut, and healthy. Her somewhat pre-occupied stare quickly altered when she found to her discomfort that he was looking at her intently. Why was he staring so? Instinctively she noticed something out of the ordinary in his look. It was almost as if he recognised her, as if he had seen her before. The red mounted to her cheeks, and she dropped her eyes. Instinctively she wondered If it could be “J.E.” Be moved * step or two towards the car riage. She felt rather than saw his look, for she kept her eyes obstinately fixed on the staring contents of bills of the morning papers as the train moved slowly out. One of them especially caught her attention. It read, “Murder of a Moneylender at Brighton.” CHAPTER IV. Doris gave a little shiver as the train bore her out of Shoreham Station. Although Imaginative, as a rule, her outlook on life was more of theboylsh type, healthy, and sane. Yet. somehow, the thought that she had spent a night alone In a strange bungalow, and somewhere, perhaps not j far off, a ghastly murder was being committed, sent a little cold shiver through her. Then she remembered that, after all, she had not been alone the whole while, and her thoughts reverted to the note she had found. A kindly warmth arose in her heart for the really chivalrous manner in whlcl he had treated the situation. It seemed ho was to be trusted, and would make a good friend, and she needed ii-lendg badly. The man on the Shoreham platform looked trustworthy, too, she thought wistfully. If only he had been one of her friends. She felt sure he would have understood her Impulse to leave home. His gaze had been so clear and direct, almost protective. Certainly respectful. She blushed slightly. The bungalow again I Would that episode always haunt her with the feeling of a naughty sohool-glrl who uas broken bounds and can’t quite understand the heinousness of her offence. That was the worst of doing something out of the ordinary, it made one feel guilty when one was not used to It. and a little of the effervescence engendered by the success of her escape began to evaporate. She had made up her mind to put as wide a space as possible between herself and her step-father; she never for one Instant Reamed of returning to his uncongenial roof, nut now the thought grew more and more Insistent—where was she to go? And what was she to do? On the top of these tumultuous thoughts she was somewhat dismayed to realise on reaching Brighton that she had to change. Never having travelled much, she stood, bewildered and hesitating, amidst the bustle of an early-morn-ing business railway platform. Something forlorn In the expression of the sweet-flushed face appealed to the heart of a burly guard, and as her eyes met his friendly ones, Doris hurriedly ran to his side and asked him to direct her. “Victoria, miss I Yes. this is right.” was his reply. “Wall a moment, though; there is such & rush this time o’ the day; I'll put you in a reserved carriage. There's only one other lady,” he added with a smile. as Doris hesitated. Doris laughed. “Oh! but these are first-class, and my ticket is only third.” “That's si! right, miss. The other lady .is third too. We may use our discretion sometimes. Thank you, miss.” Dnrls had slipped a small coin Into his hand. The door was slammed, and the train slid out out of the platform. A girl occupied the seat, facing her. and something In her stiffened attitude compelled Doris’ attention. She was simply dressed, yet there was singular distinction In the quiet garments. Only a black gown, but obviously of the best cut, the lines triumphing over the little signs of somewhat long usage. A thin gold chain hung to her waist, and there was a small gold purse attached. It was the arrested attitude of the figure I which principally attracted: like something suddenly caught and held. Her hands were pressed on the cushioned seat each side of her. and her eyes seemed fixed on some vision far beyond the peaceful landscape that now raced by the carriage window*. The small oval face looked very pale in the bright morning Light, and the Ups were parted and dry. Doris, whose thoughts were at the moment quite self-centred, hardly realised how fixed her own gaze was, until the deep violet eyes opposite ashed round with an almost fierce questioning glance. “Is anything the matter? Why are you staring at me?” The words were almost hurled at her. Doris flushed crimson as she stammered: (To be continued.)
Permanent link to this item
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Bibliographic details
Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 74, Issue 199, 24 August 1931, Page 12
Word Count
2,038“Through the Silent Night” Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 74, Issue 199, 24 August 1931, Page 12
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