OUR SERIAL. THE GLARE.

Waimate Daily Advertiser, Volume XXIV, 31 December 1926, Page 8

OUR SERIAL. THE GLARE.

CARLTON DAWE.

BY

CHAPTER XI (Continued.) Meanwhile Denise and Co. continued to make headway, though at no great pace. Bitter jn all things is the period of waiting. Esme Dundas wore that gown of gold tissue in the second act, and looked most admirable in it. For Esme was pretty, much photographed, much mentioned in the Press; altogether a personage. Not free from rumour, of course; always the last leading man the scandalous whispered. But her dresses were noticed; usually spoken of by lady journalists as “dreams,” “confections,” and the like; gush in torrents. Therefore Madame Denise might hope; only, unfortunately but few, the inquisitive ones knew that Albemarle Street had provided that adorable gown, while Duroche, w’hose name appeared on the playbill, reaped the credit. Still, Esme paid promptly, which was not the way of all. It meant hanging on, fighting hard to retain every inch of ground that was won. And sometimes her head ached, ached dreadfully while temper was sorely tried. Insolence in Rolls-Royces, condescension in taxis or on foot. She tried to tell herself it was all in the day’s work. What did it matter.? When one set out on adventure one had to take the good with the bad, sunshine or rain- And it was not all insolence or condescension. More than one charming woman I visited her, thereby easing the strain. She often wondered when it was going to happen; guessed that one day it would happen, and when Billie Penton strode into the shop she prepared herself for battle. Billie had long since passed the first flush of youth, but she was still a handsome and attractive woman. One could well conceive that in her day, with her sprightly legs and her winning smile# she might easily have amused the stalls and conquered the gallery. Monstrous time, so cruel to women! Yet she was a fighter; always had been, always had to be. Battling with fate seems to be the dowry of some women. She always fought well and strenuously, asking no quarter, knowing none would be given; would go down fighting strenuously, the flag nailed to the masthead. Brave soul! As Madame Denise came towards her, slim, graceful, so gloriously young, a shadow passed over Billie’s face, a mist swam before her eyes. Though she had no recollection of a certain visit to Snaggard’s, or of a particular young woman, the fame of Madame Denise had reached her. And this was she! Ah, well, why clutch at the glass-topped wall with delicate fingers ? Of course she wondered how it had come about, where he had met her, but restrained impertinence or inquisitiveness; just looked long and looked' again. Perhaps smiled quietly to herself ; no doubt thought a good deal, she who. had never thought much. If she had things might have been different. . .

Denise, remembering that day at Snaggard’s. had at least expected blatancy, and was agreeably disappointed. TO' discover an unexpected charm in this woman seemed to better things, to give her a new sensation of dignityThinking of her imagination had not suffered from over-restraint, and she was glad to find it at fault. No mention, of the theatre passed between them; with a delicacy much approved no subject was broached which might engender embarrassment. They discussed hats, frocks, the latest fashions; it was only after purchase that the visitor gave her name and address. Perhaps Miss Penton saw the colour suffuse that white slim throat as Denise bent down to write in her book; or perhaps that mist swam once, more before her eyes. One never knows just how it will be with a woman. Perhaps she also might have experienced a sudden desire to say something; might even have felt like playing the mother. Billie Penton cast for the part of mother would have stirred laughter in the unregenerate. But whatever her inclination, she held it valiantly in check; probably realised that even the advice of mothers is frequentlywasted on impetuous youth. Yet as she walked out into the street, perhaps a little shakily, there was a sudden blurring of familiar objects. The inevitable, the inevitable! But as she had lived fighting so would she die. Rather a brave soul in her way. Here, too, -was food for the reflective one, and reflection marked a tiny line between the level brows of Madame Denise; ought to have sunk it deeper, in fact. They were rather wonderlul brows, almost too dark and heavy; singular contrast to the light tint in her hair. At times they gave her an almost eerie look; shaded her eyes as in mystery. Marshalmead loved to kiss them, and her eyes with their heavy lids. But just then it was not of kisses she was thinking, or rather of kisses for herself; but of other women who had been kissed and forgotten. Perhaps they, too, could kiss and forget. One hoped so. But to be forgotten by him to whom one had surrendered one’s soul, was this forgettable? Inconceivable to youth, but very credible to age.

It might have been a week later when Denise, glancing through the window, a habit stimulated by the of hope, saw a large car pull up at the kerb before her door and a woman alight. She was a woman of medium height, inclined to stoutness, and of indubitable middle-age. Her clothes, dark and’neat, made no pretension to cut er style: in her hat, which was of the wide-brimmed variety, a large feSther predominated. The face bore no particular mark of distinction; one sees thousands of such uninteresting faces. The first smaii chin was supported by one of a larger growth; the eyes were dark and rather piercing, th' mouth full and inclined to sullenncss.

Her deportment was both dignified and aggressive. As Denise stepped forward to greet her, wondering what had brought this weird bird into her select dovecote, she paused and looked that, young person up and down, a look in which surprise and uncertainty were curiously blended. “ Madame Denise ? ” she questioned. “ Yes.” “ I'm Lady Marshalmead.” Like a challenge, that pronouncement. “ Yes,’’ the girl said again, a sudden painful fluttering in her breast. “That conveys nothing to you?" “ Merely that you say you are Lady Marshalmead.” Her ladyship smiled grimly. “J, wanted to have a look at you," she said in a tone of insolent superiority. “ Having satisfied your curiosity, need I detain you?” But her ladyship, apparently, had no intention of allowing herself to be thus summarily dismissed. Indeed, she appeared to plant her feet more firmly on the carpet, to arrogate to herself more than a fair share of superficial space. Her mouth curled supercili ously; amused contempt animated every feature. “So you are his latest toy?" she said. “ I don’t know what you mean.” But the fighting blood of all the Leighley warriors began to boil. “ I think you do.” “ Have you come here to insult me?” “Is that possible? Mere curiosity, I assure you; reprehensible, I admit, but human. I had heard of you and wanted to see what you were like.” “ Are you satisfied with what you have seen? Do I compare favourably with you?” “You are a very impertinent person.” “ And you a most insolent one. Please leave this place at once.” “ You appear to forget that I am his wife.” “ And you appear to think I am his mistress, but you are mistaken. 1 am no man's mistress, no man's toy. Lord Marshalmead is my friend, my father’s friend, nothing more.” “ And out of friendship he finances this establishment? Unusual, even for him.” “It is a business proposition.” Feeble reply, and she knew it; lamentable explanation. “With you at the head of it? Well, always a fool.” “ You are proof of that.” The warrior blood of the Leighleys had now crimsoned her face; was boiling furiously in her veins. This woman —to dare! That manlike spirit in her, of which the old soldier had discovered so many traces, stirred fiercely Her own dignity was at stake, and she was ready to face a legion of detractors in defence of it. Her eyes hardened; the brows came down in a straight line. Human passion in the primitive; not pleasant to witness. Much of Lady Marshalmead's selfconscious superiority seemed to evaporate. That last wicked thrust had pierced the joints of her armour;' of all thrusts it proved the most painful. There was in it a biting, bitter truth, a poisonous, cancerous truth.’ Insolence could make no more cruel assault, wickedness descend to no deeper depravity. “Your insolence does not mitigate the invidious position in which I find you. I came as a friend, believing you might have been misled by the glamour of wealth and position, which doubtless made an irresistible appeal. I find you not unaware of your position, or ashamed of it. My husband is a man incapable of deep or permanent affection; a man who has frittered away every advantage given him by birth and fortune. If you are what you say, as I hope -.you may be, you have now an opportunity to escape his clutches. If you don't, you need expect no mercy from him. He will leave you in the gutter and pass you by with a sneer. His one serious aim in life is to destroy women; he has always been a destroyer of women. For you nothing can come out of this but degradation. You see, I stand between you and all that is honourable, and I’m not budging an inch." "Why continue to stand between?” “You ask that foolish question—you, a woman. Are there not some things a woman can neither forgive nor forget? Can I brush aside twenty years of intolerable degradation as though they had never existed; forget that he has held me up to mockery all that time? I admit it required an effort to .come here; I admit I expected to find you more than you are—perhaps an Esme Dundas; more probably a Billie Penton. You see, I have a few of the names quite pat. Am I to add to them that of Madame Denise-?” ’“No!” “Well, then, take care of yourself;, never was care so necessary. I have warned you what you are to expect." With that she cut short, all further discussion by swinging round and sailing out, feather flopping, skirt bang-

ing about her heels. Transfixed, burning with shame and indignation, Denise stood looking after her, a confusion of thoughts swirling through her brain. To be attacked, insulted in this manner! The horrible woman! Prin always declared she was a colossal hypocrite; a good woman according to the general estimate of goodness in women,, but an undeniable hypocrite, narrow of mind, circumscribed of outlook. Which thought afforded consolation to the assaulted, but not infinite consolation; far from it. Slowly, indignation dying down, she began to see herself in a new and rather fearsome light; saw herself as that woman had seen her; that woman who had all moral and legal right on her side. After all, there was a moral right, which though scoffed at, treated with supremest disdain, trampled in the dust, still managed to raise its head and strike, and when it struck it banished all laughter from mocking lips. A most formidable opponent when one came seriously to consider it. Now it was all over, the blood in her once more pursuing a normal course, she regretted the impetuosity of her manner; hoped she had not been unnecessarily ill-bred. She realised now that chilling dignity would have been of more value; but in the heat of battle one is apt to forget the little niceties of deportment. And that woman had been most insolent, most provocative; self-defence demanded retaliation. No, that was not the cause of her inward perturbation; rather the knowledge that by her unguarded conduct she had laid herself open to such an attack. CHAPTER XII. Straightway 'the tale was told to the accompaniment of flashing eyes and quivering lips. The man listened, with difficulty restraining his anger; could not, in fact, restrain it. Never had she seen him like this, with that mask of raillery torn off and dashed to the ground. Another man was here, a stranger almost. The nonchalance of cynic philosophy found, it difficult to treat this matter with customary disdain; apparently made no attempt to do so. Indeed, forgot all about philosophy in the white heat of passion. “If she could think like that of me—- “ She shall think of you as you are; every one shall think of you as you are. I always knew she was a humbug, but I never thought her capable of such outrageous vulgarity. Do you realise now that I am not wholly to blame?” . . . But there were two sides to this intensely interesting development, and each was looking at his or her own; seeing things which the other failed to see. If indignation clouded his vision, reflection but made hers clearer. Lady Marshalmead had shocked all self-com-posure out of her; had in brutal fashion brushed away all the sophistical mist in which she had enshrouded herself; had laid bare sundry ill-looking patches of landscape which failed to stimulate enthusiasm. One may stow away unpleasant facts in dark cupboards, put them out of sight, even strew lavender and other sweet-smelling herbs over them; but can one put them out of mind? “She said you were a destroyer of women.” He made a vehement protest; he might have added that women had destroyed him. But in his own way he was loyal to women; probably fk. man’s way. When it came to tj-ia he thought he might face that charge, nor dread the final summing-up. There are times when moral obligation sits lightly on most of us. “My dear, have faith in me.” But she was in a relentless mood; more cruel to herself than to him. “That you would leave me in the gutter, and pass me by with a sneer.” “By God,” he said, “she goes too far! But, Denise, if you have lost faith in me, how am I to convince you? Words, words; I want to show you proof. What can I do? It’s horrible, all this; chained like slaves. Need I repeat that if I were free my one desire would be to marry you. You knrw this is true —you know it?” Much fierceness in this repetition. “Yes.” (To be Continued.)