THE HOUSE IN THE FOREST

Waikato Times, Volume 105, Issue 17783, 7 August 1929, Page 4

THE HOUSE IN THE FOREST

CHAPTER XXIII. “How do I know that Gaston is dead? And the thousand pounds. You have been promising it to me ever since I came. It comes no nearer.” “Ah, the thousand pounds! Thou art not Breton for nothing, Antoine. Thou lovest money more than a woman. There would be the cafe, and lam good at the cuisine. Go to bed, mon petit, and think it over. She would never be as good to thee, that one, as.l should be. And she will only torture thee. She prefers that one. with the face of dough to thee. I have found her crying since he was gone.” “I go to bed,” said Antoine. “I am weary of thy talk that means nothing. I do not believe that Gaston is dead. Was it likely he would stay to burn? Fortunately he had snapped the chain which held him to the wall as though he was a savage beast, mon pauvre camarade. Thou wert cruel, Madeleine Dupont, so to ill use him who had Suffered for France.” “Go I Go!” said the woman, with sudden ferocity. “Thou dost not know how to love. Thy heart Is little and cold. When thy black head lay on the pillow, consumed with pain,, I should not have taken it to my heart. Gaston at least was a man. It was not he that came home to me, but only the shell of a man tramped upon and defaced. The charge of the cavalry had gone over him. I was not cruel. Thou knowest thyself how every day I went and fed him and saw to his comfort. He broke all the house held, tore his bedclothes to rags. He wandered. It was no winder that English miss took him for a bear. I did all for him a poor woman could.” She sobbed a little on the last word. “We found the house cold and hungry, I and the English miss,” said Antoine. “It was no wonder he wandered in the bitter weather,, and cMed like an animal in pain, pauvre camarade.”

“I should have gone later. I was guarding the thousand pounds for thee, Antoine, for the little cafe in the sun, with the good wine and the i dancing. Let her go back to her face of dough, Antoine. Thou and I—it will not be long till we have the thousand pounds, now. . . . Thou and I—we shall be happy together in the sun. I will content thee, Antoine, as I have contented thee. She has not the allure, the coqueterie. Thou wouldst weary of her.” “It has always been the thousand pounds and the thousand pounds," asid Antoine. “Thou shouldst have asked him to give it to thee. Am I to waste my youth waiting for it?” "There was the sound of a closing door. He had gone, but there was a sound of weeping. Someone the other side of the door was crying stormily, : yet low, because the crying must not be heard. Bridget held her breath, her hand : upon the door handle that must not move or rattle. The thousand pounds I That must be the legacy Sir Philip left in his will to Mrs Ware. The thought that the woman was waiting on it, waiting for that precious life to pass, perhaps eager for it, shocked and hurt’ Bridget. He should give her the money and let her go. It was horrible to think of her waiting upon his death. A terrified thought came to her. She would not hasten it, this woman who was hard and cruel. She put the thought out of her head. It was melodramatic, impossible. The woman was still sobbing near her. Bridget felt suddenly faint and sick, the long tension —she remembered now that she had eaten very little. She had been suffering too much over the dog to eat. The closedup basement was probably not healthy. There was a foul smell. It was icy cold. She realised suddenly that sne was standing in her thin slippers on the cold stones, that she was wearing only a thin peignoir of silk interlined with silk. The sobbing had ceased. There was light in the darkness beyond the door. She did not dare to breathe. She heard the heavy bolt of the hall door driven to its place. It had apparently been forgotten. She could hear Mrs Ware muttering maledictions upon Pierre, the incapable, the careless, the great lazy pig. He was not fit. They would all be robbed and murdered before Pierre Lebaudy would turn in his sleep.

Bridget had known that Mrs Ware went round the house of nights, locking up. She was always about the house late —the very last to sleep. Elspeth had locked her door of nights because of the uncanniness of hearing Mrs Ware stand outside, as though she listened.

Suddenly the door she held was pulled to with such violence that she was all but flung backwards down the stairs. Her hand shot out instinctively and found a banister of iron, enough to steady her. She heard the door bolted on the other side and the woman go away. There was the slamming of another door. She had not had time to consider whether she should call out or not before the opportunity was over. CHAPTER 24.

She had a moment of panic, an inclination to beat with her hands on the door, hut it passed quickly. She knew that there was a door of communication below, but it was locked. Perhaps the key was on this side. It was a slight hope. She would not allow herself to think of the slightness. Or there might be a window by which she could get out. Suddenly she remembered the cold wind blowing through the little corridor outside her rooms. The door must be open, and possibly a window. She was not 'in a dungeon after all. Why had it not occurred to her before that” the door shutting in her corridor must be open to admit so strong a blast. The relief was enormous. It made the darkness a mere nothing. She went down the stairs feeling with her hands against the wall, clutching the banisters. Cobwebs festooned themselves about her fingers. Once she thought she felt the body of a spider, and stopped to rub off the thing with disgust. She reached the foot of the stairs. There was air blowing from somewhere. She could see the low wdndows against the light of the risen moon showdng down an avenue of the pines. The windows were obscured with dirt and cobwebs. She shuddered as she remembered the spider.

And despite the strong wind blowing the place had a fetid smell as if the wind just passed over some foulness without having power to lift and carry it away.

bhe'had located the wind now. It was blowing from the kitchen. There must be a window broken there. How quickly the dust and cobwebs had gathered; as far as she could see there was no great disorder, only the low barred windows one side of the corridor —she had not known they were barred — and the open doors leading to dark unused rooms and domestic offices the other. Nothing to be afraid of in that. She went along the corridor. The

(BY KATHARINE TYNAN.)

last time she had examined the door between her rooms and the disused kitchens it had been fast locked. She could see through the dim fanlight blurred by duct and cobwebs the light in the little passage beyond. It comforted her. If che had to wait till Rose came in the morning the feel of that warm lit passage with its rows of books and pictures, its beautiful furniture, the great clock Sir Philip had told her was unique, would reassure her. To her joy the door was open, just closed to. As she passed through she paused a moment, looking backwaid. She thought she heard a faint rustle as though something, a heavy body, got up from a lair where there were newspapers and dried leaves. She closed the door behind her hastily and locked it. Nerves, of course. Nothing could have been there. It was the wind. She remembered what tricks the wind had played at Derrymore. There had been a broken pane or a w'indow open and the wind was blowing the debris of leaves and papers lying about the kitchen floor. What a haven her room seemed. There it was warm and bright in the firelight, the dog lying just as she had left him. After all she had not been so long absent —not much more than half an hour. He lay so quietly that lie might have been dead. She switched on the electric light. As though it had wakened him from a stupor he tottered to his feet. She sat down on the floor taking the long grey head into her lap. Iler tears ran down so that she could hardly see. But —was something of the rigidity gone? The eyes were open—not with a death stare though they were filmed over. The head on her knee, inert as it was, had not the laden heaviness of death. The clock struck. She laid the head down very gently and administered the second dose. When she had finished she did not get up again. She felt tired with too much anxiety, too much strain of feeling. She leant against the chair in which she had been sitting. Her head fell over against the cushions. She was asleil). She slept three hours. She awo.ee, shivering a little. The Are was not past saving. She piled the wood and coal and taking the bellows from the wall’ blew them into a blaze. A look at the dog had reassured her. Death had passed him by. Sir Philip had not been told of the dog's illness. Ie would be good to tell him only w-hen the danger was over. The clock struck four. There was no Rose. She must have overslept. She had put on a loose woollen wrapper and soft bedroom slippers for her vigil by the dog, and had plaited her hair in two long plaits that, falling on either shoulder, gave her a childish look to match her face. She went out into the little passage, turning on the electric light, glancing fearfully towards the door opening on the disused kitchens and offices. The door seemed to be fast closed. She had left it ajar, having no means of fastening it. She had only glanced that way and the door was in shadow. She had a sudden unreasoning terror that the door might open and something terrible come through. She fled from that thought up the carpeted stairs of the tourclle to the door that opened on to the main corridor of the house. Far down a little light was burning a rose-red light which was always kept on at night. The corridor was a long one, the walls coloured a pleasant red with white arches at intervals. At the centre the staircase ran under a groined roof. A very pretty corridor she had thought it. (To be continued.)