THE VOICE IN THE DARK

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 17, 22 April 1908, Page 51

THE VOICE IN THE DARK

By

KIT DEALTLEY

A tale of a mysterious castaway who walked through the shadows into light

CHAPTER I. THE WOMAN IN THE BOAT. THE second officer stared through his glasses again. At that instant the object clearly defined itself. An exclamation broke from him. “Gee whiz! It’s a woman in a boat, and she’s alone!” ... , He hurried to the centre of the bridge, scribbled a note, and whistled for the quartermaster. “Take this to the captain,” he commanded. In less than ten minutes all the passengers and the crew were alert with the knowledge that their little steamer was heading straight l for a drifting, boat> The City of Tokyo, bound for Ancon from.. San Francisco, was about fifty m iles- off the coast of Salvador when t..e monotony of the voyage was thus broken. - Imagination .-. worked vigorously in brains that had become torpid by days of indolence under burning spns and silvery moons.- The daily game of bridge gave place > to speculations as to the lonely woman who- was drifting on the high seas in a.boat. > That she must be a .survivor of same wreck was the general and the natural opinion. But no one could make a guess as to what wreck. The only ships which had been, lost in the past few weeks had been a United States cruiser, bound for San Diego from Mazatlan, and a battleship going from San Francisco to the island of Tahiti, and from neither of those, of course, could the woman in the boat have come. The City of Tokyo neared her swiftly. Eager eyes searched the lonely figure in the tiny craft. The captain’s orders rang out through the clear air, the engines were stopped, a boat was lowered, and the mate and the surgeon descended to the rescue. “By Jove! She’s a mere slip of a girl!” This from one of 1.. e passengers, the only bachelor on board, who stood at the head of the gangway steps. Suspense held everyone. There was not a sound as the surgeon helped the girl up on deek; only an a'll-absorbing gaze on the death-pale face and the little white hand that lay like a flake of snow on the man’s dark sleeve. In another minute the door of a vacant deek cabin had closed upon the two, and then came an interval of feverish curiosity. vtiere were eight saloon passengers on the City of Tokyo, and all eight sat around the deek cabin waiting for the reappearance of the surgeon. Meantime, the rescued craft had been hauled on board and me steamer sent ahead at full speed. The boat was examined, but it told nothing. It was a collapsible canvas affair, smaller than those usually carried in ships. It was marked with no name.' There was nothing on it to show whence it had come. When at length the surgeon came forth an avalanche of questions descended on him. • He closed the cabin-door behind him and met the avalanche in a manner which showed that he had come prepared for it. He waited silently till tile last question had been hurled at him, then ■kith a couple of brief phrases he sent

the passengers, disappointed, back to their seats. “My dear people,” he said, “I cannot tell you anything. The lady hasn’t spoken a word yet. She’s pretty sick, I guess.”’ And with this he passed along to the • captain. Presently he returned to the group. “We don’t carry a stewardess on these boats,” he said, “and we don’t often need one. But in the present instance A chorus of women’s voices broke in. “You want help? Then take me.” He bowed to the four eager’ faces. “Tberq. seems to be competition,” he murmured.' A grey-haired lady, the oldest of the party, extended a hand. “Y’qji’d better decide on me, doctor,” she said. "I’, in as good as a professional aiurse any day.’’ , , . .. ~ “Is that so? Then come right in,” the surgeon replieil, ~•• • Mrs. 1 Sanderson’s portly form was enviously watched as it vanished into the 'kick gift's' cabin',' K ft>r everyone was anxious to lend a helping hand to a being so slirrourided' in mystery ami adventure. •'\Viiv e'cmldn’t be' fin old ladyj just for a time?” murnuired the bachelor,’ as he dropped into his comfortable deckchair. A laugh greeted the remark. “Yojt’d soon wish yourself a young man again,” remarked a girl. “Especially if she turns out to be pretty,” observed another. The bachelor lighted a cigarette leisurely. “She is pretty,” he said. “How do you know ?” _ The question came from the girl. T saw her face plainly,” he answered. “She s got deuced good features, and her eyes are wide-set. I like wide-set eyes. They’re so expressive.” The girl laughed. “There’s romance in the air,” said one of them. “I felt it distinctly when that girl was brought on board. Good! Now, perhaps, we’re going to have some fun.” Two weeks had passed since they had left San Francisco, and there were still eight days before they were scheduled to reach Ancon. The voyage had been singularly free from excitement, and time had begun to pall. But now all was changed. A life had been saved. There was a story to be heard, and who knew what romance might not hang over the woman in the boat ? M xv.iin the cabin Mrs. Sanderson, now alone with the patient, was inducing her to drink beef tea and to answer a question or two meanwhile. “'You feel better now ?” she asked. “Yes. You are very kind. I—l am grateful,” was the faint reply. ,“My dear, I am doing nothing—nothing at all. Poor little thing! now long were, you in that boat?” "I don't know.” The girl shuddered. “You were wrecked?” “No—that is—oh, please don't ask me anything!” This with almost passionate appeal. , Mrs. SamU'i’.ion smoothed the tangled hair from the gift's brow. “I don't want to worry you,” she said in her soft motherly way, “but n you could just tell us something. You see,

my dear, the captain is naturally anxious for information.” “I can’t tell him anything.*” “But if there has been a wreck ” “There hasn’t. I give you my word. And oh, please don’t ask me anything more! ” With a tired ery the girl turned her head to the wall, and Mrs. Sanderson sat down perplexed. When dinner hour arrived she went out, leaving the girl asleep. Then she came in for her avalanche. But, like the’ surgeon, she slsbk her head. ' ■ “There’s nothing to tell you,” she answered. “The poor thing is ttonscious, and really not so very ill. But she won’t tell us a thing.” And here the real mystery of the case began. The girl refused to say whence she had come or how she had chanced to 'be adrift in the canvas boat. ' ’ n • * Arguments and entreaties from Mrs. Sanderson, doctor, and captain were alyike useless. cannot tell you anything,”, she said pver.and over again. Then suddenly—it Avas in the middle of the night—a • great sobbing cry came from her. It -was- heard only by Mi’S. Sanderson, .who had transferred herself and lier belongings to the upper berth in the sick girl’s cabin. “Oh, God! Why didn’t they let me die! Why didn’t they let me die!” Mrs. Sanderson was a mother. She was a good woman, and she had a soft heart. She descended from her her, * and leaned over the sobbing girl. “My dear,” she said gently, “tell me your trouble. Trust me. Let me be as a mother to you.” But the only answer she obtained was a frightened-look from a pair of overbright eyes. Two days went by, and the situation remained unchanged. All kinds of stories were woven around this unaccountable silence. "I don’t know what to make of it,” Mrs. Sanderson told the captain, one morning, as he questioned her. “She will not even tell me what her name is.” “She is American, you say?” “Oh, yes, she is undoubtedly American—a Western girl, I should think. And she can’t be more than nineteen or twenty at the utmost.” The captain was puzzled. Had he picked up a refugee who was escaping the penalty of some crime? Was guilt the reason of this dogged silence? The physical condition of the patient improved rapidly. Youth and a sound constitution asserted themselves, and soon the girl rose from her bed. “’1 ~«e liqr out on deck; talk to her.’ said the captain. ' it may induce her to take courage and confide in one of you.”

Mrs. Sanderson agreed. It is possible that a man might wfij where a woman has failed,” she thoughts “I will get the bachelor to talk to her."’ When the girl was told by the surgeoM that she must make an effort and go out on deck she consented apathetically. Mrrf. Sanderson lent her a cool white rob«t and she dressed herself, uttering nothing but phrases of gratitude and apologies for the trouble sue was giving. ; Mrs, Sande rson went out to announce her coining. i “For Heaven’s sake, don’t around and stare at her/’ she besought? her fellow passengers, as she a chair on the shaded side of the pro-* menade deck. “It will scare the girl t<X death. Just walk about, talk, do anything but take notice of her!” I A thrill of excitement ran through’ everyone as the door of the cab™ opened. The girl came forth leaning ont the surgeon’s arm. j The bachelor stood a few paces off, by the smoking-room, and looked at her. He .saw v a slender figure of mgdiun* Jiieight, clad in a loose goy, ib of, tnueiini and lace; aismall white face, with regular features; of some deep-dark colour, large and unspeakably sadlm.ii: that glistened like* newly spun flax around a ejassje head. He moved leisurely toward her after she was comfortably seated. Mrs. Sanderson's scheme appealed to him. “ i’alk to her,” she had said. “Just do all you can to get her to confide ii» you.” “Bet your life I will!” he had exclaimed. “And now I'm starting in to make good,” he thought as he approached her. Airs. Sanderson did the correct thing. “My dear.” she said, bending over tho girl, “I want to introduce a friend d mine.” • | The girl looked up in a quick, startled way. A faint colour stole into her cheeks as the startled look died in her eyes. / 1 The bachelor dropped into a ehair lieside her, and Mrs. Sanderson strolled off to write some letters. “I didn't catch your name/' he said, smiling at her. “What did Mrs. Sanderson say? Miss- Miss- oh. I wonder if you’d mind telling me again?” There was a moment's hesitation. Then she answered hastily. “My name is May Nora May.” Ihe bachelor congratulated himself. “ I hat was easy enough.” he reflected. "Now for more.” “Well. Miss May.” he said aloud, “1 want to tell you how pleased we all are to see you out on fleck.” “You are very kind.” murmured tks girl. “We're all ever so interested in you,*

ho went on. “Why, you’ve been the event of the trip.” “Have 1? Why?” yhe bachelor smiled. “Well,” he said, “there's something exciting in rescuing a person from the Bea, like this. And 1 imagine it was fairly exciting from your point of view, wasn’t it?” 4She notified slowly. “1 suppose I ought to be very grateful,” she said after a pause. Then her eyes wandered over the sunlit water with a hungry, yearning look that made the man's heart ache. “Miss May,” he said, leaning toward tier and looking into her face, “you must have been through some terrible experiences out there.” He pointed to the sea. “Yes,” she said in a forced tone. “You are right—l have.” You were wrecked?” he asked. “No, 1 wasn't wrecked.” “Oh, you weren’t wrecked!” he echoed. For a minute the girl was silent; then, with a sudden movement, she turned to iiim. “I'm going to ask you a favour,” she. said in a low tone of appeal. “Don't question me—don’t try to make me tell you anything. 1 can’t—l can’t.” The voice struck into his most sensitive feelings. “1 won't ask you another question,” tie said firmly. “Thank you,” she murmured, with a sigh of relief. The bachelor was young and impressionable. “Look here,” lit said impulsively, “if you want a friend, Miss May, you can rely on me absolutely. Let me ask you that one question, anyway. Do you want a friend?” “Do 1 want a friend?” She bent her head as she added: “There can be no one on this boat more in need of a friend than I!” The words were a cry. The little snowy hands went together convulsively. The eyes betrayed the anguish that was racking the girl's soul. “Tell me what T can do for you,” said the bachelor eagerly. “Is there anything?” She looked at him deeply, searchingly, l>efore giving her answer. Then she said: — : “There is something. It’s this: Keep the others from asking me questions. Tell them I can't answer one. Tell them if they try to make me explain how I came to be in that boat I—l—oh, I’ll kill myself!” “Good Heavens! You mustn't think of things like that!” exclaimed the man. “Will you tell them?'’ she persisted. He extended a hand. “Miss May,” he saidearnestly, “I promised to be your friend, and that promise I'd keep. 1 will do everything in my power to make them understand what you have just told me.” ‘‘Thank you,” she said; then, as though conscious of the inadequacy of the two words, she added: “Thank you a thousand, thousand times.” An hour later In* made his report. “Her name is Miss Nora May,” he Baid. “That is all I know, and that’s all any of us are going to know. And if she’s pestered with questions she’ll probably drown herself, and that won't do iher or any of us any good. So, my advice to you all is—for the present, anyway—let Miss Nora May alone.” CHAPTER 11. A FRIEND IN NEED. The bachelor made desperate attempts t<» further his acquaintance with Nora May, hut in vain. After that first day the fair-haired stranger evaded him all the could, and he was left angered at iwhat he was pleased to term “deuced ingratitude” on her part. For had he tint quieted those curious tongues? Had he not made it possible for her to sit and walk and eat among the passengers without fear of cross examination? It may be that Nora had detected feign* of a too rapidly developing admiration in her new friend's eyes. Anyhow', idle permit ted no more tete-a-tetes, and gossip died in its birth. Taking it altogether, Nora May was not popular. Her silence built up a barrier between her and everyone on board. Mrs. Sanderson was sympathetic, but annoyed. The other women felt as though they had been cheated out of their rights, for there was not one who did riot clamour to know the girl’s story. The captain eyed her •coldly, and called her ungrateful for the son ices he and his •row had rendered her.

But nothing mattered; nothing made her break the silence regarding herself and the canvas boat.

After a day or two she was left to the loneliness she courted, and Mrs Sanderson noted it regretfully. “What can that girl’s story be that she should be so afraid to speak?” she wondered.

She began to move her things from Nora’s state room. The girl came in •while she was doing it. Mrs Sanderson smiled up at her. “You don’t want a nurse any longer, do you ?” she said. “So I’m going back to my own state room.”

The girl looked troubled. “Oh, must you go?” she asked. “There’s no ‘must’ about it,” replied the other. “But you want to be alone, don’t you, my dear?”

“No; I don’t want to be alone.” Mrs Sanderson glanced quickly at her. “I’m actually frightened to be by myself,” the girl continued. “Mrs Sanderson, I must seem a terrible enigma to you, but I can’t help it. I hate myself. I’d give anything to be able to tell you everything, but I can’t. That’s why I’m so unsociable, so apparently ungrateful.”

£>he sank to her knees with a weary little movement that expressed much. Mrs Sanderson hung up the wrapper she had taken from the hook.

“I’ll stay here, then, if you want me,” she said. Nora reached out a hand. “Oh, how good you are to me!” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m so sorry for you,” said the other sympathetically. “I wish I could do something that would really help you.” There was a pause. Nora stared into vacancy, and the elder woman watched her anxiously. “Miss May,” she said abruptly, “you are aware that we reach Corinto tonight.”

The girl looked at her inquiringly, Mrs Sanderson went on.

“The captain mentioned something about your being put off there.”

“At Corinto! ” Nora cheeks paled. “Don’t you want to land there?” “Oh, no, no!” “Where are your friends?” “I have no friends.” - “Your relatives, then?” “I—oh, Mrs Sanderson, I don’t want to speak of my relatives. Only tell me —won’t the captain take me on to Panama ?” Anxiety shone, in every fixture as Nora spoke.

“I can’t pay for my passage now,” she continued rapidly, “but I would see that it was paid some time—later—the first time I got any money.” “Perhaps I can arrange with the captain,” said Mrs Sanderson, thinking of her own substantial purse. “Would you, really? Oh, it would mean so much to me!” cried Nora. “I will arrange it,” said the other on an impulse. “How can I thank you?” said the girl. “Oh, I must seem all that is bad. But I’m not, Mrs Sanderson. I’ve never done anything really bad in my life.” “You need not tell me that,” said Mrs Sanderson. “I am sure you have done nothing wrong.” “You can only draw conclusions, just as the others have done,” said Nora in a low tone. “And I’m helpless. I cannot say a word in self-defence. My lips are sealed, and they always will be—always! ” “Miss May, will you tell me one thing?” asked her friend. “What are you going to do after you leave this boat?” “I can't tell you, for I don’t know,” she replied in a weary, hopeless voice. “But you must have some idea.” “1 haven’t.” A mirthless laugh came from her. “Why, Mrs. Sanderson, how dare a person without friends, home, or money have—ideas!” “Well, you may be without money or a home, but when you say friendless ’* “1 did not mean that,” put in Nora quickly. “I shall never forget how kind you’ve been to nie.” “Well, meantime, I want to know what you are going to do?” asked Mrs Sanderson. “I shall try to get work directly 1 get nshore,” was the answer, given after a pause. “At Panama!” The elder woman laughed. “Miss May. what can you hope to do in a place like that?” “Aren’t there nurses wanted in the hospitals at Ancon?” asked Nora. “Trained nurses, yes.” “Perhaps 1 could learn quickly.” “You arc not strong enough,” declared

the elder woman. “You wouldn’t be able to stand the life for a month.”

"Help must be wanted in the bungalows,” suggested Nora desperately. Mrs Sanderson again shook her head. “You would be sure to take fever,” she said. “No, my dear, we must think out something better than that.” Then she went off to pay for - Nora May’s passage to Ancon. “Poor little thing!” she thought. “What is going to become of her! No friends, and relatives she’s afraid to speak aliout! What in the world brought her into that boat!”

The thought still troubled her as after dinner, that night, she ■sat with the others around the captain’s cabin. A full moon was shining down on them. The night was clear and warm. Scarcely a ripple stirred the sea. Not far away the lights of Corinto gleamed. The bachelor had been telling anecdotes, and now there had come a lull as he lighted a fresh cigar. A faint sound of music gradually became distinct.

The bachelor held up the match he had just blown out. “Some one playing in the saloon,” he observed.

“Why, it’s the first time the piano has been touched since we left ’Frisco!” exclaimed a girl. Being a lover of music, the bachelor hurried off to ascertain who was playing. Presently he returned. “It’s Miss May,” he told them.

Silence followed his statement —a silence that was at first born of curiosity, afterward of admiration. For the music was beautiful; it was melodious; above all, it was —music.

Mrs Sanderson listened intently. Into her eyes there stole a curious half-yearn-ing look, and a memory came to her, saddening the lines on her gentle, motherly face. “So the girl plays?” she said to herself as she looked up at the stars. “And she plays exquisitely. Why should I not ”

But here she abruptly terminated her thoughts and rose. Leaving the others, she went along to the social hall and down into the saloon. Ere she had gained the lowest steps the lights went out, and she stood waiting, surprised, in utter darkness. An instant later and a steward’s voice sounded in her ear.

“Electricity’s gone wrong,” he shouted. “I’ll get some lamps going.” Mrs Sanderson stood waiting. Overhead there were the pattering feet of those hurrying to remedy the mischief. Below, the girl at the piano went on playing—playing. The listening woman stretched out her clasped hands in the darkness. A vague, inarticulate cry came from her. “Desmond! My son! My son!”

She stumbled along by the table, gr asping the backs of chairs, until she reached the piano. There she felt about for a divan she knew to be close by, and sank into it. And still the girl went on playing-

A sudden flash of light broke the spell.

Electricity, fitful as woman, had re appeared.

Nofa’s fingers ceased their improvising. She looked about her, dazed, and met Mrs Sanderson’s eyes. They were full of tears.

The woman leaned toward her, speaking tremulously. “My dear,” she said, “you" have a wonderful gift. How is it you have not told me that you play?”

“I did not think that—that it would interest you,” the girl stammered. “Interest me! Why, music is part of my life,” said the woman. Then she added in a lowered tone: “My home was full of music until these last few months.” “And now?” asked Nora, tentatively. “Now my home is silent,” said Mrs Sanderson. “Miss May—Nora—perhaps you could bring that lost music back to me. Perhaps you could—if you would.” “1 ?” “Yes. Listen.” The woman’s voice became eager. “To-day I have been wondering what was going to happen to you, and now I begin to see how I can help you—how we two can help each other.” “Help each other! Oh, Mrs. Sanderson ” Nora caught her breath. “I can give you something to do after you leave this boat. Nora, will you come to NeW York with me?” “But you don’t know anything nliout me!” cried the girl. “I don’t want to know anything,” replied Mrs. Sanderson quietly. “You have assured me that you are a good

girl, and I believe you. The rest doesn’t matter. Will you come with me?” “Will I come! Oh, if I dared!” “Why shouldn’t you dare?” “But I could never tell you about—■ about the past,” hesitated Nora. “I promise I will never question you,” said the woman.

Nora looked at her with mute inquiry. "My dear,” continued Mrs. Sanderson softly, “you are not the only one with a secret sorrow wearing out your heart. I, too, have my trouble, and it is one I do not care to speak of. If you will trust me I will trust you. Now—will you come with me?” “Gladly—gladly!” said the girl, placing her hand in the woman’s. “But you must let me do something. I must work.” “Yes, you shall work. And your work will be to play as you have played tonight in the dark.” Nora started. Mrs. Sanderson went on. “Some days you may not be called upon to do anything. But always, day and night, you must be ready to go into that room to play—and it will be dark —darker than the blackest night. Nora, you wouldn’t be afraid?” The girl shivered, then forced herself to answer. “No, I wouldn’t be afraid.” “Then you’ll come!” “Yes—l’ll come.” Mrs. Sanderson rose. “Then it’s settled,” she said. “And remember, you and I ask no questions of each other.” She smiled a curious halfsad, half-tender smile. “No questions, Nora—and we trust each other.” “No questions — and we trust each other,” repeated the girl mechanically. Mrs. Sanderson turned to go back on deck. The mate came down the stairs. He had just been released from duty. “We are at Corinto, Mrs. Sanderson,” he called out. “At Corinto!” sne echoed. “Why, I didn’t hear the anchor drop.” “Were we so quiet?” he asked. “But you must have heard the quarantine olueer come on board.” She shook her head. “Miss May has been playing,” she said. “I must have lost myself. Has anything else happened?” “Nothing here,” replied the mate. “But there’s bad news from San Francisco. The Pandoga has gone down and all hands lost.” “The Pandonga?” “Yes. That makes the third battleship America has lost within a month, and no one knows ” A cry from behind stopped him. It was a cry as from an animal in pain. Mrs. Sanderson and the' mate turned quickly. Nora May was standing staring at the mate with horrified, ghastly eyes. “Oh, God!” she was crying. “It isn’t true —say it isn’t true!” Then, ere they could reach, her, she fell like a figure of stone to the floor. CHAPTER HI. THE NEW LIFE. What had that cry meant? Had Nora May known and loved any of those who had gone down in the battleship Pandoga ? The answer was not forthcoming. Nora emerged from her fainting-fit merely to lapse into a silence which enveloped her like a cloud. Mrs. Sanderson studied her. She was an interesting problem, lovable and attractive in her natural moments; always beautiful to look upon. On the boat which bore them from Colon to New York more than one man followed in the steps of the bachelor on the City of Tokyo—to meet with the same fate. Cold as ice, unattainable as the stars, was the mysterious girl who had come from the sea. Nora’s utter indifference to her future at first amazed Mrs. Sanderson, then irritated her. “Don’t you want to know where I am taking you to?” she asked, one day, as they were nearing New York. The girl looked at her with surprise. “Did I not promise to ask no questions?” she replied. “That referred to your work—your playing in the dark room,” said Mrs. Sanderson. “You are at liberty to question me about anything else.” “I am satisfied to know nothing,” ■aid Nora. “Have you no interest in life at all?” •aked Mrs. Sanderson.

“I have only one object in living,” said Nora, in a low tone—“to do what I can to repay you for your kindness.” Mrs. Sanderson regarded her with a perplexed frown, her womanly curiosity working strenuously.

“Oh, Nora! Nora! what a puzzle you are!” she cried. “I never thought it possible that a young and beautiful girl could be so lost to the joys of life.” Nora was silent. And still silent and indifferent she went forth to her new existence.

In the early days of October Mrs. Sanderson and her protege arrived at the former’s beautiful home on the southern shore of Staten Island. Nora looked around her, on the drive to the house, and a sense of peace entered her for the firts time since her rescue by the Ci*y of Tokyo. “How exquisite!” she murmured.

Mrs. Sanderson’s gaze followed hers to the picturesque colonial house in its wooded grounds.

“Yes,” she said softly, “I think you will be happy here, Nora.” . Her eyes rested on a window on the upper floor which, though open, was covered with a dark-green shade. Then she looked at the girl. “Shall I tell her?” she asked herself. No. There must be nothing to rob the charm from Nora’s music. It must be devoid of self-consciousness; it must be inspired; it must be—perfect. Mrs Sanderson’s movements during the next two hours were., expressively impatient. She appeared to Nora to be labouring under some strong excitement. Her cheeks were flushed; her faded eyes were newly bright. Nora, however, sat in her pretty room and abandoned herself to the rest with which the atmosphere of Staten House was filled;

She gazed over the hills, the woods—anything but the sea, where, to the south, the blue waters of the Atlantic rippled in the sunshine.

Mrs. Sanderson, coming in for a minute, drew the girl’s attention to the view. But Nora turned from it shuddering. “I hate the sea!” she said beneath her

breath. “Hate the sea! Oh, Nora—why?” exclaimed the woman incredulously. The girl’s eyes stared before her. “I think of the dead bodies that lie at the bottom!” she answered. “I think of the innocent people who have gone down, and—oh, God, I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!” She covered her face with a convulsive movement, then suddenly pulled herself up. “Forgive me,” she said huskily. “I —I forgot for a moment where 1 was! Mrs. Sanderson,” she went on feverishly, “give me some work to do, and as soon as you can.” Mrs. Sanderson nodded. “If you are not too tired you shall begin at once,” she said. A smile lit up Nora’s face. “I am not tired,” she said. “You remember what it is you have to do?” “Yes. I am to play,” said the girl. “In complete darkness,” reminded Mrs. Sanderson. “I do not mind.” “And you are sure you will not be afraid? You will not call out?” “I promise I will not call out.” “I want more than a promise.” “I give you my word,” said Nora. “Then listen.” said Mrs. Sanderson. ’ I will take you into tnat room, lead you to the piano, and you will sit down. Then you will begin to play-—improvise, as you did that day on the steamer. Ami Von will go on playing anything that comes into your head until I ask you to stop.” “I understand,” said Nora. “Above all. you must not speak or move from the piano until I come to you,” added the other. , "I understand,” again said Nora. Mrs. Sanderson gave her a searching glance, then nodded as though satisfied by the expression of the girl’s face. “Come with me, then, ’ she commanded Nora followed her up a soft-carpeted staircase and along a narrow passage on the floor above. There was a door at the end of the passage. Mrs. Sanderson opened it. Nora looked ahead, but she could sec nothing. The next instant she was being led into the dark space. “Here is the piano.” whispered Mrs. Sanderson, “and here is the chair. There —you are seated?” • “Yes,” Nora whispered back.

“Now play. Go on playing till I come to you.” -Nora heard Mrs. Sanderson’s skirts rustle; the noise ceased with the quiet closing of the door. Then there was silence in the dark room.

The girl trembled. The darkness WMfl black blacker than any darkness she hafl experienced. A question shot through her. Was * alone? Then another. Was she safe! ’ Her lips moved. She was about to

out. But the cry died in her throat as she remembered the words of her friend. Nora was urave; she was loyal; and she exerted herself to carry out the compact faithfully. Her fingers moved on the keys she could not see. One chord and her fear vanished, for the instrument was sweettoned and answered her like a voice.

She began to plwy. Thp darkness was no longer empty. It rang and throbbed with the music of her brain.

She played on and on, how long she knew not, until a hand stayed her. With a start, she stopped. “Come, my deal,” whispered Mrs. Sanderson’s voice.

Nora rose’, and guided by Mrs. Sanderson, went out into the light. Confused, she blinked at her friend, and saw her smilling.

“Oh, Nora, how happy you have made me!” were the curious words Mrs. Sanderson was saying. “You can’t dream of the good you’ve done!” “I have done some good?” Nora’s tone shook. “You mean that?” “Indeed 1 do!” “Then my life is worth something, after all!*’ said the girl. The reflection appeared to comfort her. That evening—the first at Staten House—Nora’s face wore a look which Mrs. Sanderson had not seen in it before. There was a new light in her eyes that made them thrice beautiful. Nora was a woman. Therefore, she vzas a good deal occupied with the mystery of that dark room in Mrs. Sanderson’s house.

She grew accustomed to enter it, and even welcomed the hours when she was Summoned to play.. But as the days passed the problem grew deeper and her curiosity greater. The house w,as very quiet. There were three servants—a coloured cook, a par-lour-maid, arid an elderly woman whom Nora took to be Mrs. Sanderson’s confidential maid.

Outside, there was a gardener, who did duty also as coachman on the rare occasions when Mrs. Sanderson drove out in her old-fashioned English carriage.

But Nora held converse with no one but. her friend. Mrs. Sanderson’s existence was almost as uneventful as her own. She received no friends, ami went over to Manhattan seldom.

Time at Staten House dragged along monotonously. To Nora the problem of the darkroom, ai\d to Mrs. Sanderson the mystery of Nora’s past, remained unsolved.

One morning, after breakfast, Mrs. Sanderson came upon Nora in the library feverishly reading the daily paper. So absorbed was the girl that she did not hear Mrs. Sanderson enter. Mrs. Sanderson stood for a moment watching her. Nora’s fair head was bent over the paper. She was muttering to herself. “My God! When will it end! When will it end!” she was saving. With a hoarse erv she suddenly cast

away the paper as though it had stung her. It. was then that she became conscious of the other woman’s presence. She did not speak, but stared at her with the eyes of a hunted stag. There was not a vestige of colour in her cheeks. Her lips were blue. Mrs. Sanderson went toward her. “My dear.” she said, “you are ill!” The infinite gentleness of her voice acted like a (harm. 'fears softened the hunted eyes and rolled down t he uespa iring face. “Not ill in body,” she answered, with a sob, “but in mind—yes—-yes!” Mrs. Sanderson put an arm round her. “I wish I could help you,” she murmured. Nora’s hand went up to her eyes. “If only I could set* the right road,” she said. Then she looked at her friend. 'Mrs. Sanderson,” she said in a changed lone, “tell me this: If you knew that hundreds of brave men were going to thcirdeat.li when a word from you might save them, would you speak?” “Would I speak? Mrs. Sanderson Ft a red. ‘ I mean.” added the girl hastilv, “would you speak if it meant sacrificing the being you loved best in the world?” ' That is a question dillicull to answer,” Said Mrs. Sanderson slowly. “Think of the person you love most.” Fa id Nora. “There is someone you care for ?” “Yes. indeed, there is some one.” “Whom you love dearly?” “Whom I love more than myself.” “Then would you send that person to death a shameful death — to save •the rat* **

“No, no!” came the hurried, almost abashed, answer. “I would die a hundred deaths myself, suffer a thousand tortures, rather than send him to his death.” “Him! Then it is a man?” “Yes, dear.” said Mrs. Sanderson, “it is my son —Desmond.”

This'was how Nora came to hear first that Mrs. Sanderson had a son. She was silent a moment, wondering why the fact had not been mentioned before.

Meanwhile, the other - was. topking., down at the newspaper which. Nora had cast from her. What could it contain that could stir up such emotions in the girl? ... i What had that strange question meant ? . • • : ■' ’ She felt troubled and perplexed. Nora read her face. . . , “You .want to know why that paper has upset me?” she asked, pointing to it. Mrs. Sanderson nodded. “Isn’t it natural that I should?” she replied. Nora picked up the paper and handed it to her, denoting a certain article. “It’s terrible enough to upset any one,” she said in self-exoneration. Mrs. Sanderso read it with interest. The very headlines were sufficient to quicken her pulses. They were printed in heavy sensation-making type. DISAPPEARANCE OF THE U.S. CRUISER PHANTOM! MYSTERY OF MISSING WAR-SHIPS PARALYZING THE AMERICAN NAVY. NO NEWS OF THE VANGUARD, VAMPIRE OR PANDOGA. Mrs. Sanderson continued the article rapidly: The' deepest anxiety is felt throughout the country as to the safety of the U.S. cruiser Phantom, which sailed from San Francisco for Acapulco four weeks ago. She was last reported off Ensenada a week after sailing, and then all was well with her. But nothing has been heard’,of her Since. She was due .at

Acapulco on October 28. Boats-coming up the coast from Mexico have no information of her, nor of any wreckage. It is feared that another must be added to the list of disappearances for which the navy is desperately endeavouring

to account. Orders have been issued that the

cruisers Hildergarde and Austere shall proceed at once southword in a devious course for the purpose of obtaining some clue to the mystery.

Nothing has been heard of the other three warships, and now. with the disappearance of a fourth, the mystery begins to assume paralysing proportions. No bad gales have swept the Pacific in the last two months. No bodies have been washed up along the shores between Vancouver and Panama. No wreckage of any import has been found. Where, then, and how, have these four fine ships and their gallant crews gone?” Looking up. Mrs Sanderson caught Nora’s eyes fixed on her. A memory flashed across her. Nora had fainted when the first mate of the City of Tokyo had announced the loss of the Pandoga. She had cried out, beseeching him to tell her the news was false. And now she was white and trembling, an object of fear and despair, because she bad read of a similar disaster. Yet how could this frail slip of a girl be concerned in the United States navy? Why should she make the country’s loss, a personal grief? Mrs Sanderson could find no answers to the questions that traversed her brain, and it was clear that Nora meant to go no further in her confidences, for she abrupt ly and hastily changed the theme. But it remained in Mrs Sanderson’s mind as a cloud that would not be dispelled. CHAPTER IV. THE VOICE IN THE DARK. Happily. Nora was not called upon to be with Mrs Sanderson for many hours of the day. for that lady spent much of her time in her own room—or so Nora supposed. She was glad. Mrs Sanderson’s eyes, with their penetrating questioning, were fast. liecoming a terror to her. They made her feel guilty and consciencestricken. They imbued her with the desire for confession—a desire to which she dared not give way.

There was only one period of...the day when Nora was able to forget herself and her troubles. It was when she went into the dark room. . .. t

Very soon this room had become part of her existence. She loved its silence, its blackness, its mystic atmosphere. The piano was her joy. She used it with an almost pass.ionate tenderness. She grew to hate leaving it, for to it, and. it alone, could she pour put her heart. i Then gradually there came to her the consciousness that there was something —some one else—-breathing and living in that room. Now and then the merest suspicion qf a rustle or of a sigh, in the darkness would make her catch her breath and pause in her playing to listen.

Picture after picture was conjured up. She saw in her imagination the room all bathed in sunshine, furnished in a quaint, old-time way with high-backed chairs and carved tables, and cabinets inlaid with ivory and tortoise-shell and jewels. She saw one deep, wide chair, chintz-covered, with many soft cushions, and fti it a figure. Sometimes it was that of an aged, infirm woman; sometimes an old man, paralysed and unsightly; sometimes one on whose youth and beauty a terrible illness had left an indelible mark.

These and many other pictures passed before her vaguely, like those in a dream. But soon the shadowy figure in the great chintz chair came to her mental vision in a more definite way, and now it was the figure of a man, young, handsome, and—was he blind ? The Genius of Romance hovered over this being of her imagination. She thought of him, dreamed of him. played to him.' To" him, the invisible, she dedicated her girl’s soul; to him she gave unreservedly those priceless gifts she must have denied the Real Man. It was as though th&hand of a spirit had touched the -strings of her soul so that it sang for him, and him alone. Never had Nora played as she played now. Never had the cold ivory keys of that piano met so burning and thrilling a touch as that of those little fingers that constituted; the voice of Nora’s soul.

Occasionally she would wander frdm her improvisations to some well-known song, longing yet not daring to sing the words that came to her lips. It was during one of these moods that the wonderful thing happened, and her dream defined itself into a truth.

She was playing the “Bedouin Love Song,” when suddenly in the silence behind her there came the notes of a human voice. Her heart gave a bound, but she went on playing. She listened entranced. The voice rang out, thrilling, beautiful—the voice of a man. “I love thee. I love but thee. With a love that shall not die!” Nora’s lips parted. The desire to sing —to merge her voice with the other—overwhelmed her. Some magnetic quality in it seemed to draw hers on. Her thoughts flew to the compact. She had promised not to speak—to utter not a sound in that room. Yet . In another instant thought had fled, and two voices echoed through the dark space. “Till the sun grows cold. And the stars are old. And the Leaves of the Judgment Book unfold.” An hour later Nora went out, pale and trembling, into the passage. She saw Mrs Sanderson go back and elose the door. Then she went slowly along to her own room, palpitating with flip memory of the voice. Not long afterward, Mrs Sanderson came to her. “Dear Nora,” she said, taking her hand, “I can never thank you! It has been such a wonderful night! How can 1 ever repay you!” Nora gazed at her, striving for speech. “So loyal and brave!” went on the elder woman. “You are keeping your promise well, Nora.” She looked at her with an almost imploring gaze. ‘•Nora,” she added, “don’t let this make any difference to-—to our arrangement.” ‘•You mean my playing in there?” queried the girl, flushing. ‘•Yes. Now that you know there is some one in there—some one who may do again as he has done to-night. You will not bo afraid to go on?” Nora hesitated. “Is there anything to be afraid of?” she asked. “Nothing — nothing whateverl” the

ether assured her. “You are as safe in that room as in your own.” “In that case I need not fear,” said Nora.

"Bless you, Nora,” said Mrs Sanderson. “Some day you will kiidw, and then you will understand what good you have done.” - vt .- » i

Then she flitted away, and once more Nora was left ' That night, hearing a cry from the girl’s room, Mrs Sanderson hurried in and turned on the light. Nora was sleeping, but her hands were groping about her, and she was calling out wildly: . “Don’t' go' on! For God’s sake, don’t go on!” ’ Mrs Sanderson placed her hand on the girl’s head. “Nora!” she whispered. “Nora!” A pair of frightened eyes disclosed themselves as Nora awoke.

“What is it?” she asked in a gasp. “Has anything happened?” “You were : talking in your sleep, dear,” said the other gently. “I thought it best to wake you.” Nora sat up in bed. Every feature was alive with apprehension. “What .was I, saying?’? ... Mrs Sanderson told her. “Was that all? You'are sure that was all ?” Then she sank back with 'a moa’n. “I think I shall go mad!” she said piteously. ~ . ? Mrs Sanderson’s gaze rested anxiously on her. But she asked nothing. She merely determined to watch Nora more closely in future and ascertain by deduction what terrible cloud shadowed the girl’s life—a decision that was as much born of affection as of curiosity.

She' was considerably startled the next morning'by the first thing'Nora said to her.

The girl came into the dining-room looking wretchedly ill. Mrs Sanderson was standing'by the big wood-fire awaiting breakfast. She looked round. “Good morning, dear,” she said. “I hope you are feeling better.” Nora answered'in agitated tones. “No; I feel terrible. , I’m going to say something that will surprise you. It may Jhurt your But try to understand. I —l am not wholly responsible.” “What is if’ Nora? Don’t be afraid. Tell me” _ . Nora’swyes dropped before- her kindly gaze. « ■ * —■* ■‘•’v-e . she “GdeawSjQ-” -? “Yes,” vsstid.nNora.-i “I rcannot stay here aaiy ■dongcr. The’ double life that I’m leading" killing Oh, don’t you understand.?*’'. she wgnt?f' on ; agom isedly. “I’m not naturally deceitful, and it cuts me to the quick to have to temporise and act a. part, as I am doing.” “But, Nora, I - have found- no fault with you.” . • . - ■ “No. .You have been wonderful. There aren’t many women who would have acted as you have. But that’s all the more reason why I mustn’t stay any longer.” - • “ . i “So you have made up your mind to leave me?” Mrs. SarideFson spoke slowly, reproachfully. ' • ~ — “Yes. I’m going to New . York. I shall find work—the kind of work that won’t make me hate ray self, as this ( does. I shall make no friends. I have no right to a friend. Why, if . you knew ; the truth, Mrs. Sanderson,'you would never speak to me again!” “When do you want to go?” asked the woman quietly. ' . , ’ ~ “ ■ “At once,” said the girl feverishly. x.,ere was a pause. . Mrs; Sanderson stared into the fire, : thinking deeply. Nora walked over to " the window and looked out. A big ocean-liner was coming in. Its smoke showed black against the blue sky.

She turned baek info the room shuddering. The sea was to her more fearful than the grave. Presently Mrs. Sanderson went toward her with an extended hand.

“Nora,” she said, ‘‘lf am going to ask you to stay. Wait; don’t answer before ymi’ve heard me. Stay with me just a little wmie longer, mere is a big reason—a vital reason. If you go away now you will be doing more harm than you can dream of. If you remain, you will be helping to bring back the light

of fife to one who has lost it. Nora, don’t go! Don’t go! ” The girl looked around her helplessly. She appeared to be struggling mentally. There was a suspicion of hesitancy, of wnieh the other woman was quick to take advantage. “Don’t go,” she repeated. “Nora, you can ask anything of me in return, only stay with me and go on playing to— Ha."

Nora’s scruples fell before the woman’s pleading. She said no more about going, and life in the household resumed its ordinary routine.

It was itow that a new era fn Nora’s existence at Staten House began. For the voice tha't had sung in the darkness spoke. ' 4 ' ' It came during an interval of silence after she had been playing. The voice uttered her name. “Nora!” She started, and turned her head ih the direction of the sound. ' - • "Nora!” it repeated; “Are you there still ?” "Yes.” The monosyllable came breathlessly. - 1 “Why don’t you go on playing?” She pressed her hands to the keys with a nervous movement. Her fingers worked mechanically, but they gave no music — only a series of meaningless chords. The voice broke in. "You can’t play to-night,” it said. “You’re too’sad. Isn’t it so, Nora?” She made no reply. Tears gathered in her eyes. Her fingers grew cold and stiff. Something—sue knew not what—had frozen the music in her, and she could Only sit there, helpless and stupid. “Why don’t you answer me?” asked the voice. • “Nora, speak to me.” “I’ve promised not, to speak,” she replied huskily. “You need not keep that promise,” said the voice. “I must,” said Nora. “It is only I who can release you from

that promise,” said the voice, “and I do.” “Who are you?’ asked Nora faintly. “Are you Mrs. Sanderson’s son?” “It does not matter,” was the answer. Then, after a second or two: “But I will tell you who I am if you will tell ine who you are.” '

“I am nobody nothing of importance,” she replied. “That’s’ just what I am.” said the voice. “Nobody—nothing of importance.” •

But you must be of importance,” insisted Nora. She was thawing fast. The voice had brought warmth and friendliness. It’ was magnetic, and drew' ’'Tier despite Aerself into converse. “Why must I?’’ it asked. “Because you are hi this room—because I am here to do nothing but play to you,” she answered. “Well, then, perhaps 1 am of importance to one being,” admitted the voice. “But to myself,, not at all. And yoii, Nora —are y° u not of importance to someone in the world?” “No,” she returned bitterly. “To no one in the world.” “Does no one love you ?” “Yes, someone loves me.” *, “Then surely—- “ You do not understand,” put in Nora quickly. “A person may love another, but if that person wilfully wrecks the other person’s life doesn’t it show that the latter is of no importance?” “Has someone wilfully wrecked your life, Nora?”

“Yes, and his own,” said the girl, dashing the tears from her eyes.

“It’s so strange,” said the voice, affaf a pause. “For that's just what has happencil to me.” “You? Oh, but it 'can’t be quite ths same,” said Nora. “You don’t wish dead, as I do.” “I did—until you came,” was the darig answer. • Nora trembled. I,” she repeated. “But how can I have made any difference?” “You gave me music/' said the voice. “Anil your music brought back the wim to live.” . . x “Others would have given you music,’* suggested Nora. . » “Others tried,” said the voice. “But ■it was not the same. It was the soul I wanted. Nora—not just the lingers—and n was the soul you gave.” - , “Why must you always be in the dark?” questioned Nora. r ' “Because it is besL” was the vague reply. i Another brief pause. Then the voice again. “Are you unlKippy because you didn’t •go away to-day?” it asked. “1 don’t know,” Nora stammered. ? “You wouldn't be sad if you kncuß what your staying meant to me. Youa music has touched the chords of my verji soul.” - “I’ve promised not to go,” Nora stanp mered. i Then, gathering her faculties rapidly she began to.play, and the voice did ncB| speak again that night. )

Nora confessed to Mrs. Sanderson immediately she left the dark room.

But there was no reproof in store for tier.

“It was quite right,” said Mrs. Sanderson. “lie is the one to be obeyed. If lie wishes to speak to you do not refuse.”

“Who is he?” asked Nora’s eyes. But the woman turned away. “It lies with him now,” she said mysteriously. “Whatever lie wishes you to know he will tell you.” There came a little relaxation now from the turmoil in the girl’s mind. The voice was a friend—-not as Mrs. Sanderson was, but in a way different from any she had known. She would turn from the piano while she was playing, searching the intense darkness for some glimpse of him. It was not so with the owner of the .voice. „ “I know what you look like,” he said to her one day. “How do you know ?” she asked. “Never mind; I know.” “How, then ?” “You have golden hair and dark-blue eyes. Your face is oval and small. Your complexion is pale. Your lips are prettily curved. Your ears are little. You are not very tall, and you are always dressed in black.” “Mrs. Sanderson told you all this,” Baid Nora. Then, with a touch of coquetry: “What else did she tell you?” “That you are beautiful,” said the iyoice briefly. Nora smiled. “Oh, I’m afraid I’m not beautiful,” phe said hurriedly. “But it isn’t fair that you should know all this about me. *. xnow nothing about you.” “It doesn’t matter about me,” said the Voice. “Go on playing, Nora—sing to Dio,” Sue obeyed, and soon the two voices iWere mingling in the darkness like those (which have grown accustomed to be as one. “Where did you learn to play and sing?” one day inquired the unseen as she was finishing a Brahms’s “Hungarian Dance.” Nora hesitated, not wishing to commit herself. Then she found an answer. “In California,” she said. ' “But you couldn’t have learned what you know at a school,” argued the voice. “I didn’t,” she said. “Where did you, then?” “One doesn’t learn music,” she replied. “It is born in one. It was born in me, I suppose. I learned a good deal of what I know by ear.” “That is how I learned what I know,” Baid the voice. “Then you play?” asked Nora. “Yes; that is, I did.” “Why don’t you now?”

“Because—oh, it doesn’t matter,” said the Voice, dismissing, the subject with the Baine old phrase. It seemed to be the particular delight of the owner of the voice to find out similarities in his and her life. “Isn’t it strange,” he said, on one occasion, “that you and I should both have a secret we don’t want to tell?” "Mine is one I can’t tell,” corrected Nora in a low tone. "It’s a secret all the same,” said the Voice.

Nora played on without answering. “Wouldn’t it be less hard to bear if you could share it with some one?” asked the voice. “Perhaps," murmured Nora, her fingers travelling over the keys agitatedly. “Why don’t you share it with some one?” “I can’t.” “You mean you won’t?” “I daren’t.” • , “Is there no one you could trust?” asked the voice insinuatingly. “I mustn't,” said Nora. ‘•Supposing you and I trusted each Ollier?” suggested the voice softly. “Oh. no! no! no!” came from the girl, and she went on playing. "If I told you my story would you till me yours?” "I can't,” said Nora, in a muffled tone. She heard a sigh, but that was all. Tin- owner of the voice bad apparently resigned himself to his disappointment. Not that he had abandoned his quest, liowuver. For on the next occasion he hsked Nora why she hail not told Mrs. Sanderson her real name. "What, do you mean?” asked the girl In n startled tone. “What I say.” said the voice. “Yon have a good reason. I don't doubt, but you haven't given your real name.” “My name is Nora May," stated Nora firmly.

“Well, it’s something else as well, then,” said the voice. “You’ve got a last name.” Nora found refuge in the piano. “Isn’t it true?” persisted the voice. “Yes,” she admitted; then added: “I’m not fit to be spoken to. I ought to be dead!'* “Never mind,” said the voice, and now she fancied the owner of it was smiling. “Go on playing. It’s better than dying, Nora.” And it was in such dialogues in the dark that Nora and the voice grew nearer and nearer—though how near neither of them realised until the crisis came. (To be Continued.)