THE DEVOURING FIRE

Waikato Times, Volume 109, Issue 18350, 9 June 1931, Page 4

THE DEVOURING FIRE

By LORD GORELL

CHAPTER 1. As In a Glass, Darkly. “God, you oan’t mean that I" “I do—every syllable of it.” “But why? Why I That’s what I want to know.” "I’ve told you. We won’t discuss It 'any more. What I say I do: you ought to know mo well enough by this time." “I’m beginning to.” The speaker’s voice had a rasping trcmulousness ns though It were passing beyond control. “You fool! You’ll thank me when you’ve come to your senses.” . . “And that’s your last word, Is it 7” “Yes.” “Then, by—” “Mow then, none of that!” Apprehension was sharply audible in the tones. "I thank you? I’ve had little enough reason ever to do that." “Keep awayl You’re beside yourself!" There was a sudden shuffle of feet on the thick carpet. “If I am, who’s made me so?” The question was asked with difficulty as though the speaker could scarcely frame the words from emotion. “Ah—h!” The monosyllable was hardly an articulation so much as an indrawn gasp of dismay; it was followed by a creak, a fluttering of paper, a confused, Dumping crash, and a groan—and then silence^ A long moment passed without sound. Then a shuddering breath —it might have been of satisfaction, consternation, or relief—was expelled into the tense atmosphere of the room. One of the disputants changed attitude, and.swiftly: footsteps moved and there was the slight cracking of a knee-joint, followed by a soft thud on the lloor. There was a sound as of fumbling with clothes then silence again; and then once more the long, indefinite, shuddering breath. A moment later the person who had moved straightened up, strained every sense to rigid attention. Seemingly a long way off and uninterested in what was passing, or had passed, in the.room, a faint sound of voices could be heard in the regions of the house beyond the door. The stiffened llgure hesitated, iio more: the next instant the heavy pair of curtains that hung loosely "across the open French windows were;drawn momentarily apart as the figure pushed through and vanished into the night. A foot trod lightly on the stone step outside: then silence setled down again ominously upon the room. Outside, a bird sleeping in a- low bough was suddenly disturbed; it awoke in a scurrying alarm that subsided as quickly as it had arisen. The voices in the regions of the house beyond the door died away. To all appearance solitude as well as silence reigned—only the light, gleaming out in* k~"ftilh H £hd eerie streak across the sombre lawn from the slightly parted pair of curtains across the open windows of the room, suggested that it was still a spot of human habitation. Presently there was a faint" rustle as of a woman’s garments and the curtains swayed slightly inwards as though touched either by a newlyarisen little breeze or by somo materia] presence. A moment slipped by like a frightened intruder; then a low, weak groan disturbed "the silence and enthroned the solitude of the room. The heavy curtains parted instantly and fell as Instantly back into their former lines: then the silence was renewed. A minute passed: the very faint rustle changed position; it was no longer without, but within, the room. Again silence. Then footsteps crossed the thick carpet awkwardly and yet Very stealthily; there was'another lew, weak groan. A voice spoke, very quietly, very deliberately, very remorselessly. “This is as it was meant to bo.” It was barely above a whisper, and yet it seemed to fill the room with a curious quality of cold. The very books ranged in the shelves round the room took on an air less of Indifferent, than of icy, regard; the glass over the several pictures gleamed with a frosty Impassiveness. q’hc silence was broken by a third groan, low and weak as its two predecessors, but no longer charged as they had been only with pain—fear—was audible in its quivering sound. “Good,” murmured the voice with intensity; “we begin to understand one another. Let us make sure there is no mistake. Its owner appeared to listen and to deliberate for a few seconds: the two faces, that of the speaker and that of the groaner, were very close together. There was a subdued sound of whispering, then a fourth groan, a little louder, definitely born of terror. A .slight sound as of a hand passing over clothes followed. "At last,” said the voice slowly. There was a convulsive jerk, a terrible choking rattle of breath, an instant’s drumming of heels, a snap of closing teeth —then silence. After a moment the sound as of fumbling with clothes was resumed with definiteness and rapidity. The very faint rustle as of a woman's garments was audible again: the light went out: the heavy curtains were parted and let fall once more to renew their motionless barriers. The room was again surrendered to the twin devils of solilude and silence. A clock somewhere in the regions of the house beyond (he door struck the hour of eleven. The tobaccoplants bordering the lawn gave out their gracious scent upon the undisturbed serenity of the summer night.

CHAPTER 11. At the Wlckot-Gate. It was a night for lovers’ vows, rtie.h-sccnted, warm-hrcathed, virginal in Its appeal, the June dusk sank slowly Into darkness: it had rained heavily on (he previous evening, and the whole earth had revelled ever since in an atmosphere of exhilarating youth. Miss Ella Tressway stood at her gate for many minutes, rigidly staring out Into the darkness; her breath came and went more unevenly than was natural to her Immobility; ber teeth alternately hit and released the fullness of her lower lip- Once she started forward down the lane relaxing her hold on the top-bar of the lit Up gafp that had previously whitened her knuckles; but. whatever her intention, it died ns quickly as It. was horn. In that romantic selling Miss Tressway was very beautiful. She was tali and la the fulness of a woman's

(Author of “Venturers All," “Out of the Blue,” etc., etc.)

prime: the moonlight clothed her proportions in grace and gave to her pose the simplicity of statuary. Suddenly she gave a swift shrug of her shoulders, either of anger, Impatience, or [ some less ordinary emotion, and turned sharply into her garden: the little wicket-gate shut behind her with a vicious snap as she jerked it to in her I passage. The sound seemed to re- | lieve or' to steady her: she passed up the little gravel path toward her house with steps changed almost to indolent sauntering. A blind covering the half-open kitchen window was pushed back and a servant’s head showed black against the lamp, as its owner peered out a moment into the garden. Anger was instantly predominant in Miss Tressway: her indolence changed to abruptness. She strode to her door, opened it hastily, and passed into the little hall. “Hilda,” she called out sharply, “what's the meaning of this? Why aren’t you in bed?” "My time’s my own, ain’t it,” replied Hilda, emerging from the kitchen and confronting her mistress truculently, “after I've washed up? Readin', I’ve bln, if you want to know. More’n you ’ave, I’ll be bound.” “That'll do, returned Miss Tressway angrily. “You leave my affairs alone.” “Oh, I don’t trouble my ’ed about ’em- If I did —” “Well?” A sniff, audible and comprehensive, was the only answer.'-. “What have you been reading?" asked Miss Tressw'ay, ignoring her servant’s attitude and speaking more pleasantly. “It must be exciting to keep you up to all hours like this." "I aint’s late,” retorted Hilda,” on her defence again, glancing at the kitchen clock. “Gone eleven a few minutes ago, that’s all. ‘The Murdered Markis’ fair grips you; it’s a teaser, and no mistake. I’ll lend it you if you like when I’ve done with it." “Thanks,”, replied Miss .Tressway icily. “I’m not interested in that sort of book. Lock up and go to bed. I’m going anyway: I’m tired.” Without further words she lit a canule und went upstairs. “Gettin’ above ’erself," muttered Hilda sourly as she returned to the kitchen. “I ain’t, goin’ to stand that from the likes of ’er, not much. Upset she. Is, or. she’d know better." With a 'grimace. In which obstinacy, and enjoyment were strangely blended, Hilda re-selled herself cosily In her chair to resume her interrupted reading. CHAPTER 1111. In The Gordon. As Miss Oliver dropped her letter into the pillar-box let into the ivied wall by the gateway of the Grange, she was panting with the haste she had made. A glance at her wristwatch showed her that she had indeed run 11, very fine: It was just on the stroke of eleven, the hour at which the last clearance of the hox was made. Fancying that she had heard footsteps in the lane, she had run the last few yards, but when she reached the bend and passed through the gateway, she saw that her ears , must have deceived her. She had ' fully expected to come upon the postman in the act of unlocking the box; but the lane was both empty and silent.

After her letter had fallen within, Miss Oliver stood a moment recovering her normality of breath. Even when she regained regularity, however, she continued to stand by the box, but the postman did not come. Wide as was the extent of Miss Oliver’s local knowledge, she had not yet become aware of the attractions of the new parlour-maid at the Rectory. The postman had dallied very agreeably earlier on his round. Five ■minutes more or less, he had thought to himself, mattered to no one, if he made it up later. Miss 'Oliver waited for some time, considering her situation: then, with a gesture to the night as of one who has cast a die, she turned to retrace her steps towards the house. Considerably after her usual hour for retiring as it was, she did not go immediately to bed. She partially undressed and then, slipping on a light dressing gown, sat by the open window a long time, thinking. At last she roused herself, saw that the hands of her watch had crept past midnight, started at realising that it had grown so late, and speedily finished her undressing and went to bed, But she did not sleep soon or well. Miss Oliver was not tho only person in the house who went late to bed that night. Mr Murrell sat by himself, weighed down with thought, in the servants’ hall, long after all his official duties had come to and end. He was a man almost fifty years of age, with hair thinning like the rest of him, but most carefully brushed to conceal the fact.

Only once in the course of nearly an hour’s reclining had he obvious occasion to straighten himself, and then lie moved sharply. Me had sat a quarter of an hour or so when the sound of a door closing somewhere in his vicinity, followed by quiet footsteps along the passage outside, startled him from his attitude of- passivity. liis cigar was still between his fingers, his first whiskey and soda, almost drained, was still in his hand, when the footsteps were level with the door. They passed, leaving him momentarily disconcerted, lie glanced sharply at the clock, as if that held an explanation of the sound; tho hands pointed Ici twelve minutes past eleven. Mr .Murrell took two lingers’ height from the decanter without calling on the siphon and felt belter, but lie was puzzled. Here was something more added to the several things which had already happened that day which ho did not wholly understand. At all times he disliked not under-standing—-on some occasions his dislike amounted lo extreme vexation. Ills habit was to accumulate knowledge as a battery accumulates energy —to 'be released as and when occasion

most probably occurred. Much that carno Ills way was ultimately found to bo useless and in consequence discarded; but, as his experience told him, no ono could ever say at the lime of acquisition what knowledge would be useless and wliat of commercial value. Time alone was the test; the only rule by which lo regulate life was to acquire everything always. An unknown fact, more especially when it was one which concerned the household In which he resided, was at the very least, an affront to his acquisitiveness. Murrel had suffered few affronts of this nature; there was little Indeed that had a bearing on the life

of any inmate, permanent of temporary, which he did not know or at any rate have good reason strongly 'to suspect. Ilad he been adequately attired, it might have been that be would Immediately have arisen and confronted the owner of the footsteps. Circumstanced as he was, he acted as though he felt that he bad no option but lo hope that, whoever it was, the owner would not intrude upon his privacy. But the Instant the passage of footsteps assured him as to himself, Mr Murrel'sprang from his chair with an agility of which his earlier lounging had given no indication, tip-toed to the door, opened it stealthily, land peeped out into the passage. Quickly as lie bad moved, be was too late. The footsteps bad turned the corner, a green baize door gently shut, and silence was renewed. Mr Murrell returned to bis chair and his potations, but his enjoyment of both were now openly a pretence. This footfall entered but intermittently into his mind: a maid lad-larking, no doubt —a pity lie had not caught her, but no matter; he had graver affairs to consider, and it seemed improbable that this particular fact could he of assistance to him. He had overheard much that day over which now to |onder; his own affairs were little to his liking—so little that once in his life lie had scant atlcntiou to pay to the affairs of others. (ho he continued.)