The Mystery Road

Auckland Star, Volume LIX, Issue 237, 6 October 1928, Page 12 (Supplement)

The Mystery Road

K By Jl £• PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM jY . k • ■

CHAPTER I. •■ The Marriage Toast, Myrtile stood upon tie crazy verandah, her eyes shaded'by her hand, gazing down the straight, narrow footpath, a sundering line across .the .freshlyploughed field, which led.to the village in the hollow below. The cottage from, which she had issued was set in a cleft of the pinecovered hills,. fashioned of mouldering white stone, struggling against its inborn ugliness and succeeding only because of the beauty of its setting—in the foreground, v the brown earth with its neatly-trained vines and its quartei of an acre of fragrant violets; the orchard, pink and white with masses of cherry blossoms; beyond, that level stretch, of freshly-turned brown earth, soon to become a delicate carpet of, tender green, and, by the time the vines should sprout, a sea of deep gold. It was the typical homestead of the small French peasant proprietor. Even ;the goat was not absent, the goat, which came, at that moment with clanking 'chain to rub his nose against the girl's knee.

Myrtile's hand dropped to her side. The three figures were plainly visible now. She remained quiescent, watching them with a mute* tragedy in her face, .which, to anyone ignorant of tho inner significance of this approaching procession, must have seemed a little puzzling. For there was nothing tragic about Jean Sargot —middle-aged, a typical peasant of the district, with coarsened face and weather-beaten skin; or about the companion who hung on his arm —a plump, dark woman, with, black hair and eyes, vociferous and fluent of gesture, with a hig-pitched voice and apparently much to say.

. The third person, who walked in the rear, seemed even less likely to incite apprehension. He was more corpulent than his neighbour, Jean Sargot, and he wore clothes of a holiday type, ill-suited to this quiet country promenade. His coat was black and long, a garment, it appeared, of earlier years, for it left a very broad gap to display a fancy waistcoat adorned by a heavy gold chain. He wore a silk' hat which had done duty, at every christening, marriage and funeral in the neighbourhood for the last twenty years, and his whole appearance was one of discomfort. Yet the girl's eyes, as they rested upon him, were filled with terror.

They were near enough no.w for speech, and her stepfather,- waving his hand, called out to her.

"It is the Widow Duniay, little one, and our friend arid neighbour, Pierre Leschamps. who come to drink a glass of wine with us: Hurry with tl>» table and . some chairs, nr.d bring one—two bottles of last year's vintage.' It is not so bad, that wine,. neighbour Pierre, I you." "Any wine will be good after such a walk," the widow declared,' panting. "Either the village lies too low, friend Jean, or.your house too high. It will be good to rest." : ;

They sank into the chairs which Myrtile had already placed upon the verandah, Pierre Leschamps laying his hat upon a handkerchief, in a safe corner. There were beads of perspiration Ujpon his forehead, for, unlike hib friend and host, he was unused to exercise. He kept the little cafe in the village, and the strip of land which went with it he let to others. His pale cheeks and flabby limbs told their own story, jean Sargot looked about him with the pride of the proprietor. "Not so bad, this little dwelling, eh?" he exclaimed. "Four rooms, all well furnished, a bed such as one seldom sees, and , a wardrobe made by my own grandfather, Jacques Sargot, tho carpenter. It pleases thee, Marie?" The widow looked around her with a little sniff.

"It 'might be worse," she conceded, ITnifc there are the children."

"Three only," Sargot replied, "and in a .year or so they will be in the,fields. Think what that may mean. We can sell the timber from the behinu and plant more vines. Children are not so bad when they are strong." "The little ones are well enough," Madame Bunay admitted, "but thine eldest-r-Myrtile—she has not the air of health." ' They all looked up at the girty who was approaching them at this- moment with wine and glasses. She was of medium height and slim.' Her complexion was creamily pale—even the skin ■about her neck and arms had little of the- peasant's brown. Her neatly braided hair was of tHe darkest shade of brown, with here and there some, glints of a lighter colour. Her eyes, silkily fringed, were of a wonderful shade of deep blue, her mouth tremulous N and beautiful. There was something a little exotic about her appearance, although no actual indication' of ill health. The widow looked at her critically; Pierre, the innkeeper, -with unpleasant things in his black, beady eyes. ■ "Pooh! .She is well enough," her step■father declared. ■-"Never a doctor has crossed this threshold since Jier mother died many years ago." •, . . .--.;.. ' ■ Myrtile welcomed her; father's guests pleasantly but. timidly. Then, after she had filled-the: glasses, she would have slipped back'into'the house, but Jean Sargot grasped her by tho arm. "To-night,' my child,' ? he insisted, "you must leave your books alone; You rau6t drink a glass of wine with us. It is an occasion, this." -• . Myrtile looked from one to the othsr of the two visitors. She had for a moment the air of a trapped animal. Madame Dumay made a. little grimace, but Pierre only laughed. She was a flower, this Myrtile, not like other gins; Even the young men complained of her aloofness. He knew well how to deal with such modesty. ■- • . . • "Behold," her stepfather continued, "our two best friendsi' Here is good Madame Dumay. A nice little income she makes at the shop, and a. tidy 3um in her stocking." " "Oh, la, la!" the widow interrupted. "What has that to do with thee,'my friend?" , . : ■ .- '•-.•

"Arid also," Jean Sargot -went on, without taking heed of the interruption, "thy brave Pierre Leschamps. Oh, a gay

Leschamps had risen to Ms feet, Myrtile shrank back againsi the wall. The terror had leaped now into life.

"1 will not marry Monsieur Leschamps," she declared. "The other—is your affair. But as for me, I will.not marry!"

Jean Sargot leaned back in his chair and drank has wine. His two guests followed his example. ' , :

"Ho, ho!" he laughed. "Come, that is good! You were always a shy child,' Myrtile. Pierre shall woo you into a different humour."

"Ay, indeed!" the innkeeper assented, .leering across at the girl with covetous eyes. "We shall understand one another presently, little one. You need have no fear. Marriage is a. pleasant thing. You will find it so, like all the others."

"It is an institution to be toasted," Jean Sargot declared, filling the glasses and glancing amorously towards the widow. "Trouble not about Myrtile, my friend Pierre. She is thine. We shall drink this glass of wine to marriage. It will be a festival, that, eh, Marie i" \

Myrtile slipped through the open door-; way. Her prospective husband, looked after her for a moment and half rose.j Then he looked back at the wine flowing into his glass. Myrtile would keep-— wine by the side of Jean Sargot, never! He resumed his seat. In a minute or two he would follow her—as soon as the second bottle was empty. ' Across the stone-flagged floor, out through the little garden, and along the cypress avenue to the road Myrtile fled. She was like a terrified young fawn in the half-light, her hair flying behind her, her large eyes filled with fear. Her, feet seemed scarcely to touch the grass-' grown track. . She fled as one who leaves behind evil things. Only once she looked over her shoulder. No one was stirring, no one seemed to have thought of pursuit. She reached the gate which led out on to the road and clung to if for a moment, as though for protection. On the.other side was freedom. Her .eyes filled with passionate desire. If 'only she:knew how to gain it! They, were,singing down at the cot-, tage. She heard Jean Sargot's strident voice—some country song of harvest and vintage and what they called love. As she stood there in the quiet of the evening there seemed suddenly to leap into life a very furnace of revolt. She was weary of her monotonous tasks — the abuse of her stepfather, generally at night the worse for sour wine and fiery brandy; the care of those motherless children, not of her own stock, yet dependent upon her, the grey tedium of a new life unbeautiful and hopeless.

And now thia fresh terror! Her ftngera tore at the rough splinters, of the gate. Her eyes travelled hungrily along that great stretch of road, passing here' and there through the forests, rising in the far distance at' the top of the brown hillside, and disappearing .in mystery. At the other end of the road one might find happiness! : CHAPTER n. A Start on the Grtat Adventure. The two young men adopted characteristic- attitudes' When confronted with the slight-misadventure of a burst tyre and the delay.of half-an-hour. . Christopher Bent deliberately filled and lit a pipe, and, seating himself on the top of a low, grey, stone wall, gave himself up to the joy of a wonderful view and the pleasure of unusual surroundings. .His companion, Gerald Dombey, stood peevishly in the middle of the road, with his hand in his pockets, cursing the flintstrewn road, the rottenness of all motor tyres, and the evil chance which led to this mishap in the last lap of their jour-

"We'll be on the road again in twenty minutes, your lordship," the chauffeur promised, as ho paused for a moment to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. "It's been cruel going all the way from Brignolles, and you've kept her at well past the forty all the time." His master nodded with some signs of returning equanimity. "Don't distress yourself, John," he said. "There's no real hurry so long as we get into Monte Carlo before dark. Come on, Christopher," he added, turning to his companion. "Get down from that wall and let us explore."

The two young men strolled off to-', gether. On their right was a planted forest of pine trees, fragrantly aromatic after the warm sunshine of the April day. On their left was a stretch of very wonderful country, a country 'of vineyards and pastures, of wooded knolls and fruitful valleys. And in the background the sombre outline of "the mountains. Gerald paused •to point to "the little ■ discoloured house of Jean Sargot. . • ■ "Are they real people who live in these quaint cottages?" he speculated. "That place, for instance, looks like a toy farm, with its patch of violets, its tiny vineyard, its belt of ploughed land, and this little grove of, cypresses. It is just as'though some child had taken them all from his play-box and laid them out there."

. Christopher withdrew the pipe"- from his'mouth for a moment. He was looking at in. the little grove of cj-presses. '■• . '.■ ;': "And there," he murmured, "must be the child to whom they- all belong. I think you are right, Gerald. There is something unreal about the place." Gerald, too, was suddenly conscious of the girl who stood clutching the top of the wooden gate, her face turned a little away from them, absorbed in the con-! templation of that distant spot where the- road vanished in a faint haze of blue mist. "We will talk to her," he declared. "You shall practise your French upon this ; little rustic, Chris. She probably won't be able to understand a word you say." • i At the sound of their voices jtfyrtile turned her head, and,, at the things which they saw in her face, there was no longer any thought of frivolous conversation on the part of the two young men. They stood for a moment, indeed, speechless ; Christopher spellbound, Gerald, of quicker sensibility, carried for a moment into : the world from which she seemed to have fallen. Then his old habits asserted themselves. She was as beautiful as an angel, but her feet were- on the ground, and she was obviously m distress. : __ j ;„„■,,»,» i, o

i "Cannes is over there, monsieur," she said, "and there is no other.road save this one." , ;', . . '

"You go there often, perhaps," Christopher ventured. i* "I have never been there, monsieur," she answered, with her eyes fixed upon derate. - • .-/

"\ "Night after night, when my. work is done. I come here and'l watch the road just where it fades away,, but I have never travelled along it. I have never been farther than the first village, down in the hollow."

/ Gerald came a step nearer to her. He leaned against the gate-post. His tone and manner became unconsciously caressing. It was generally so when he epoke with women. ! "You" are in trouble, mademoiselle," he said. "Sometimes even a stranger may help." She looked down the road toward where the automobile was jacked up.

"Yes," she admitted, "I am in great ; trouble. No one but a stranger could ■help mo because I have no friends.". j "Be brave then, and speak on," Gerald enjoined. , There had been no previous time_ in her life when Myrtile had been required to marshal her thoughts and speak unaccustomed words, .yet, at that moment, clearly and unfalteringly, she told her story. She pointed down to the weatherstained cottage, behind. ■ "I live there," she said, "with three half-brothers and sisters and a stepfather. My mother was the village school mistress. She married for the second time a bad man, and she died. ;I have taken care of those I j'have kept the house clean and tidy. I have done what the cure told me was iny duty, and all the time I have hated •it."

! "Why?" Christopher asked simply. V She looked across as though surprised at his intervention.

"Because the children are coarse and greedy and ill-mannered," she explained. "I wear myself out trying to make,them different, but it is useless. It is; in their blood, because my stepfather—is worse. Often he drinks tooi much brandy, he is quarrelsome, he is never kind. There is not one little joy in life, only when I escape for a short time and come here and look down the road which leads to liberty, and wonder what may lie at the other side of the hills there. You see, I have read books —many books. My mother and father were both well-educated. I know and feel that the life I am leading is terrible."

"There is something beyond all this," ■Gerald said. "There is something of instant trouble in your face." i Again for a moment she was voice-; less, a white, dumb thing, stricken nerveless with horror. It was that lohk which had surprised the two men. Her breath, as she spoke, seemed choked withy unuttered ,sobs. . .-.-.-.■• .»>' "My stepfather brought home from the village to-night—the Widow Dumay. He is to marry her —to bring her to the farm. He brought, too, Pierre Leschamps, the keeper of the cafe. .'. Horrible! Horrible!" ■■-■'■'■ >

"Pierre LeseTiamps," Gerald murmured softly. "Go on." . ■ .• "They propose, perhaps, to' betroth you?" he asked, with quick understanding. ,;•.. .;•..' ■.

Her assent was mirrored in the agony of her eyes. "Hβ is fat and old and he drinks," ehe cried. "I would sooner die than have him come near me!"

The two young men turned their heads and looked down at the little farmhouse. The very abode of peace, it seemed, with its thin thread of smoke curling up to the sky, its thatched roof, its reposeful atmosphere. Just then, however, they caught the murmur of discordant voices, a shrill shriek of laughter. The men were singing. "Look upon us as two friends," Gerald begged. "What would you have us do J" The girl pointed once more to where the road disappeared among the hills. "If you leave me here," she declared, "I shall walk and run and crawl until I pass out of eight there and perhaps they may borrow the widow's cart and catch me, and then I shall kill myself. Take me with you as far as going—somewhere where I can hide. The car glided slowly up to where they were standing. Gerald did not hesitate for a moment. He stepped into his pln.ro at the driving wheel'and motioned to the seat by his side. "Agreed," he said. "We will start you, little one. Tell me, how are you called?"

"Myrtile," she murmured. "We will start you off on the great adventure of life. It seems to me that there can be nothing worse in store for you than what you leave behind.' The girl pushed open the gate and sprang into the car like a frightened thing. Gerald turned his head. Around the corner of the farm three unsteady figures showed themselves; three voices —two raucous and one shrill—called for Myrtile. There were threats, gesticulations. The girl cowered by Geralds "Start!" she implored. "Start, please!" Christopher, however, still hesitated. ' ,• . .". . "I think," he said, "we should first hoar what these people have to say. They have, , after all, some claim upon the girl. It' might be possible to aid her without bringing her away from home." _i Myrtile clung to Gerald. Her eyes were swimming pools of passionate entreaty. "Start, monsieur," she pleaded. 'There is nothing for me but escape. Why does the other gentleman mind?" ' "Get in, there's a good fellow," Gerald begged impatiently., "We don't'want to have a row with these yokels." The chauffeur was already in the dickey "behind. Myrtile's eyes implored Christopher to take the place by her side. With his feet still on the road, however, he leaned across her to Gerald. ■ "Gerald," he' said, "this is a more' serious affair than you seem to think. 'Who is going to look after the child when we get to Monte Carlo?" "You can, if you like," was the careless reply. "I'm not thinking of playing the Lothario, if that is what you mean." "Word of honour?" "Word of honour. Don't be an ass, old chap. It's up to us to give the 'girl'a chance." Christopher stripped off his coat and wrapped it around Myrtile. Then he took the place by her side. Gerald slipped in the clutch and they glided off. (To be continued daily.)