THE CAREER of STELLA FRANE

Ladies' Mirror, Volume I, Issue 5, 1 November 1922, Page 6

THE CAREER of STELLA FRANE

by ISABEL MAUDE PEACOCKE

CHAPTER IV. I V HAVING arrived at the building, I Frane stationed himself on the Vi opposite side of the street, in the \§ shadow of a doorway, and stared up at the great looming bulk of the Carlington. The block was in darkness, save for one row of brilliantly lighted windows, the windows of Tarne's flat. And as Frane stared up at these, hesitating whether to go up or not, a woman's shadow flashed swiftly across the white blind and stayed silhouetted there, the shadow of Stella Frane. Frane knew it in an instant, the perfect little head with its abundant hair, dressed low, the defiant up-lift of the rounded chin. Then as he stared in dumb amaze, a second shadow joined the first, the shadow of a man with impetuous outstretched hands, and the two shadows melted into one. . When the roaring red waves which blurred his vision had passed away, Frane passed his shaking hand across his eyes and looked again ; but the white blind was blank now. But he had seen! God! He had seen his wife in Godfrey Tarne's arms, the man she had sworn she despised, the man she had believed dead two days ago. But had she believed him dead? The swift suspicion shot into his brain with an almost physical anguish. Was it not all a trick, a ruse on Stella's part to get rid of him, her husband? As has been said, Frane was not an imaginative man. What he saw he saw very definitely, and he had seen his wife in another man's arms, and out of that in his simple, direct way he drew his own conclusions. She had been alone with Tarne in his private rooms, she had urged her husband's flight, and believing him well out of the way, she had gone back to the man she evidently cared for. Betrayed ! Tricked ! Fooled! Frane ground his teeth, and clenched his hands in impotent fury. His first impulse was to storm his way into that room, tear those guilty lovers apart, and finish the work he had so bungled on Tarne the other night—and then hang for it. And the woman! She. whose soul he had believed to be as limpid as her eyes! Worthless! Worthless! He dropped his head in his hands. Suddenly a great weariness, a lassitude of soul and body fell upon him, and he turned away apathetically. It was beginning to rain heavily, but he did not heed. Almost light-headed as he was, from want of sleep and food, and his gnawing anxiety, he staggered away and passed from this quiet street into a roaring thoroughfare, full of noise and glare and whirring wheels. He started to cross the street blindly. There was a rattle of wheels, a clang, a shrill cry, and a confused sound of shouting. Then something monstrous, heavy and dark, with glowing eyes, seemed to leap out of the rainy drizzle of the street. He was conscious of a terrific blow, of pain and horror—then all sounds faded away into blessed peace and silence.

i I At the hospital, to which the hastily yl summoned ambulance conveyed him, -/ _ they found his address on the letters in his pockets, and sent tor his wife. Day after day Stella came to the hospital, only to hear the words "No change" to her agonised enquiries. Frane lay between life and death, silent, speechless. To move him to his own home was out of the question, but Stella secured a private room in the hospital for him, and surrounded him with all the comforts and luxuries which love and money could procure. Finally an operation was performed, and a piece of bone lifted from the brain, and

he was reported conscious at last, but with slender hope of life. Nevertheless, his splendid constitution triumphed, and he was pronounced out of danger and able to see his wife one day when she called. To her anguished amazement and horror, the moment he caught sight of her. trembling and flushing with emotion at his bedside, he fell into such a piteous state of excitement and anger, that the scared nurse hustled her from the room, and the next day told her that her husband had begged that she be not admitted again. "Don't worry," said the nurse, soothing her evident grief and surprise. "Head cases are queer sometimes, and often turn against their best friends. Give him time." So poor Stella, mystified and unhappy, was obliged to submit. She ventured to send Lester a brief scribbled line, "You have nothing to fear; G.T. is alive and well,"

and received a terse acknowledgment, written on the back of her own note in shaky characters, "I know it." MORE puzzled and distressed than ever, ITX Stella went to her home to brood, heart-stricken, on this amazing development. Though denied her husband's room, Stella continued to visit the hospital, in the rather pathetic _ hope that the inexplicable whim of the sick man might change. Her own grief had softened and sweetened a nature which had been in danger of growing self-centred, and as she came and went through the long wards, she often stopped for a word or a smile at the bedside of some sufferer. Often she sang to them, little knowing that in his private room, which, unknown to himself, his wife's care and money had provided, Lester Frane lay with closed eyes, the tears of weakness and emotion on his thin cheeks, listening to that lovely voice singing the sweet, artless old songs with which Stella had sung herself into his heart so long ago, "Annie Laurie," "Allan Water," or "The Beating of My Own Heart." ... Sometimes the yearning to see her face again, to feel the clasp of her soft hands. was so overpowering that he felt he must send for her; but in his utter weakness he shrank fretfully from the thought of the accusations and explanations involved. and all said and done, he would think, inexorably, she has proved that she no longer loves me. ... So he would harden his heart again. Among the patients who most eagerly welcomed Stella was a little bright-eyed six-year-old boy, the victim of infant paralysis, but a bright, merry youngster. Stella often sat and sang to him old nonsense rhymes and nursery songs; she told him stories and brought him toys and fruit, diverted from her own sad thoughts by his quaint chatter. Jimmy said to her one day, as he wistfully watched a crippled man propelling himself across the ward in a wheeled chair: "If only I could ride like that, I wouldn't mind me bad leg. I wouldn't need it then." "Then you shall ride, dear," she promised with tears in her eyes, and the next day a handsome little wheeled chair, with his name on the label arrived at the hospital. One day Stella found a man seated beside the child's bed when she came in, and the boy cried excitedly: "That's my lady. That's her. Dad !" Stella paused with a smile, and the man rose. He was a quiet, decent-look-ing man, well dressed and well mannered, though with something furtive in his hurried glance at her, and he thanked her in a voice which trembled for her kindness to his son. "My name's Medlow, ma'am," he said earnestly, "and my boy's told me what you've done for him. I—l am most grateful. Jimmy's all I have in the world.' His poor mother died at his birth, and him like this since two years old. Thank you again, ma'am, and—and— ever it's in my power to do you a good turn, which isn't likely, of course, I'd go through fire and water to serve you. If I might know your name, ma'am—" "I am Mrs. Frane," replied Stella with a smile. " and I am only too pleased to have helped to make your boy a little happier. Jimmy and I are great friends." She passed on with a bow and a smile; but Medlow sat on silently by his son's bedside, and his face was grey.

Mrs. Frane, his son's friend and helper, and the wife of the man he had promised to ruin by a trumped-up lie. Medlow was not a radically bad man, but by environment and circumstance in the beginning he had been forced into crooked ways, and living by his wits, he had worked his way through life by many devious paths. The one pure influence in his life was his little crippled son, whom he adored, and ever since the child was born, he had, to use his own expression, "run straight." But, unfortunately, his master Tarne had become aware of a dishonest episode in the man's life, for which he had not paid the penalty by law, and held the threat of exposure over him. Fear of gaol, and disgrace in the eyes of his child, who loved and admired him immensely, terrified Medlow. So he sat on by the boy's bedside thinking—thinking— thinking "Through fire and water" he had vowed to go to repay his child's benefactor, and now he felt he was called upon to face far worse, the contempt and reproach of his son when he had grown old enough to understand. Finally he rose with a sigh, kissed his boy silently and went away. He had a bitter battle to fight, and the issue was by no means certain. TMMEDIATELY on Lester Franc's disJ- charge from hospital, he found himself under arrest on a charge of robbery and assault. He was too weak physically, and dazed mentally, to make any protest, knowing the uselessness of such a course, and he submitted apathetically enough. Stella, who had not visited the hospital for several days on account of a heavy cold she had contracted, appeared there an hour or two after her husband's arrest, which had taken place in the hospital grounds, under the eyes of the indignant nurses. "Didn't even wait till he got out of the grounds," said the warm-hearted hot-tem-pered charge nurse. "Well, if Mr. Frane's a bad man, then I'll believe it of any one." Stella stood as if turned to stone, and the nurse, a warm partisan on whatever side she championed, and. who had inclined to the belief that there must be "something" to account for her favourite patient's refusal to see his wife, now felt her heart melt in pity for the stricken girl, with her white face and tragic eyes. But Stella was in no mood for sympathy. She was in a white heat of rage that Godfrey Tarne should dare to do "this thing—should brand her husband a thief and midnight assassin. Her own belief wavered strangely. At times the very suggestion of Lester Frane being a thief was incredible, and she rejected it with scorn. Then would come the thought of his extremity of trouble and the damning evidence against him to breed doubts. But. innocent or guilty, she was resolved to save him, even though it might shame her forever in the eyes of the world. She hastened away now to make arrangements for Lester's release on bail, only to find that a bondsman had alreadv come forward and her husband was free. She knew the bondsman John Graham, a friend of Lester's father, a dour old Scotchman of narrow views and rigid principles. He was one of Frane's few personal friends, and thought highly of the younger man, but Stella knew that he looked upon Lester s wife and her public career with disapproving eyes. She felt that indirectly he blamed her for Lester's business failure, and if he even had an inkling of the facts he would certainly hold her responsible for her husband's present situation.

OLD John Graham received her at his office civilly enough, but with a frosty stare through his horn-rimmed glasses. He said he had been glad to become Lester's surety, but refused point blank to shift his responsibility to herself. "A good steady lad," he said, "and no more a thief than I am." "Of course not," said Stella, the tears rushing to her eyes, and heartened by the confidence " in his tones. "And now please may I see Lester?" Graham shook his head. It seemed that Frane, still very weak from his illness, was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, the doctor had ordered him complete rest, and he himself had begged that he might see no one. The emphasis on that word made Stella's heart sink. "But——l am his wife," she faltered. If a slight trace of pity softened the hard grey eyes behind the convex glasses Stella did not see it; she only heard the cold finality of the tones which said : "Better not. Lester seemed over-agitated at the mention of your name, and expressed no wish to see you. You might write, though—" "I'll not write," said the girl proudly, and went out with her head held high. She was hurt and bewildered, her pride cut to the quick. What was there to explain her husband's persistent avoidance of her, except a bitter resentment for her share in that dreadful night's work, or elsethe knowledge of his guilt and the shame.of a thief. Stella went home to bed, feeling ill and exhausted, and for some time was unable to leave it, a sharp nervous illness following on her heavy cold. She saw no one, cancelled all public engagements, and denied all private friends. Twice she heard from Tarne in letters which alternately implored and threatened, but she ignored them both. From Frane she heard not at all, and made no attempt to communicate with him; but John Graham, according to promise, wrote curtly, informing her of the date of the trial, that Lester was stronger, and a good lawyer had been engaged for him. 11l or well, Stella was resolved to appear at the trial, and looking like the ghost of her former self, • with delicately-hollowed cheeks unnaturally flushed, and feverbright eyes, she came out to her waiting car on the eventful morning, defying her doctor's grave warning. "A fresh chill might mean the permanent loss of your voice," he had said, employing the strongest argument he could think of; but Stella had replied listlessly: "And if it does — is that such a great matter?" she said bitterly to herself. WHEN Stella reached the Court it was packed with the idly-curious public, and she took her seat in the body of the hall inconspicuously, from which position she could plainly see her husband and also his accuser. The sight of Lester in the prisoner's dockwrung her heart with indignation and compassion. Her big handsome husband, how thin and worn he looked, with the dark shadows of illness and sleeplessness beneath his fine steady eyes, but he held his head as high as ever, with its old free carriage of pride and independence. From him Stella stole a glance at Godfrey Tarne, seemingly as imperturbable and well-groomed as usual, the flower in his button-hole, the horn-rimmed monocle in his eye, as he scanned the people in the court with careless interest. He turned to say a word to his lawyer, and careless as he might look, was in reality in some

uneasiness. Medlow, his principal witness, had not turned up, had indeed been missing since last night. It was true that Tarne, suspecting the likelihood of this from the man's obvious reluctance to corroborate the story of the robbery, had by dint of veiled threats, induced Medlow to sign a written statement, setting forth the "facts" 7as he had suggested them. If the worst came to the worst this statement must be made to serve in the place of spoken evidence, and he would declare Medlow to have been taken ill at the last minute. Nevertheless Medlow's defection angered and disquieted him, and he kept glancing from time to time at the door with an eagerness he strove to cover with his usual air of nonchalance. But his face grew darker as the minutes ticked away. Tarne's decision to persist in this prosecution, by which on its face it seemed he could gain little, and might lose much, supposing it to go against him, arose from mixed motives. At first, in his rage and spite, he had conceived the plan purely to revenge himself upon Frane; then it had occurred to him to coerce Stella by the threat of exposing her husband's guilt, and even now, he believed that in her : heart Stella cared for him, and had no love for her husband, and that when Frane was held up to the world as a thief and would-be assassin, she would turn from him in contempt to take refuge in another's arms, and that other himself. STELLA'S indignant disclaimer of any love for him and her refusal to see or speak with him. he put down to the Puritan strain in her nature, which long association with a dull virtuous clod like Frane had only intensified, but which Tarne was confident he could eventually break down. So he fed on his secret hopes, and alternately tormented and solaced himself with dreams of the fair woman he loved as passionately as he was capable of loving any but himself. Nevertheless he kept Stella's scarf as a last resource, to be used in merciless castigation should she prove obdurate. His lawyer, a big forceful bully, made a brief but telling speech for the prosecution, describing how the plaintiff had been alone in his rooms on the night of May 24, when a man, identified as the accused by a certain witness, as well as by plaintiff himself, had entered the room and garrotted him from behind as he sat at his piano, but not before he had obtained a full view of the man's face in a mirror which hung over the piano. The plaintiff, being subject to heart attacks, fainted, and on coming to himself, found his assailant gone, and himself robbed of about £2OO in notes and his diamond studs, his pocket-book (produced) being flung aside after being broken or torn open. The sight of the empty pocket-book with broken straps and also the white dress shirt with buttonholes wrenched and torn, produced a distinct impression on the Court; they seemed to offer such damning evidence of guilt. Driscoll called the first witness for the prosecution, the caretaker of the Carlington, who deposed to hearing "queer" noises in Mr. Tarne's flat late on the night of May 24, voices and footsteps and a sound something like a "woman crying," but as all became quiet after a time, he had concluded that Mr. Tarne had late visitors, and "let it go at that." His wife gave similar evidence, bein°" disposed to enlarge on the turn it gave her next day when she found that murder had near been done. ; (To be continued). . ~ ■ -■-.'