The Road that Led Home

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 123, 15 August 1927, Page 14

The Road that Led Home

By

Elizabeth York Miller.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS CHAPTERS VIII. to X. —Mrs. Clayton enjoys her new status, but keeps her husband at arm's length. One Sunday morning Raymond meets Connover and Mrs. Gerald Methune, and these two invite themselves to lunch with the Claytons Informed by ner husband of the two guests Nora becomes excited, dresses •with care in order to Impress them, but finds that both Connover and Mrs. Methune are quite weight enough for her. Later she takes Connover to her boudoir, and is once more overcome by the old glamour. She tries to hold her own, but Connover takes the wind out of her sails by telling her that, in the long ago, the curate, James Prester, interfered between them, and took a message to him, Connover, that Nora never wanted to see him again. To Nora's incredulity he replies, ‘‘Ask him.’* A little later the Vicar of Riffmoor is taken ill and dies. The Claytons go to the funeral, and Nora stays on at the Vicarage to help her sister to straighten things out. Alison intends to carve out her own future. Nora visits James Prester in his little cottage. Jim comes to the door. He invites her in and she challenges him with the statement made to her by Connover. He is silent.

CHAPTER XVII. Jf Connover had not pulled Nora and detained her almost by force, sire would probably have overtaken Bessie Adams in the passage, or possibly even on the stairs. Such was bdr haste to get away that there was ncf reason in her and it looked almost as£ though she meant to create a little scene. Connover was very nearly brutal. “Sit down,’* he commanded in a hissing undertone. “You can’t rush out of here alone. You’re behaving like a guilty housemaid. For heaven’s sake, try to remember who and what you are. even if you have no regard for me.’* Each word was a stinging blow on Nora’s sensitive consciousness, and she reacted against it with loathing for Connover. He had got her into this mess, and now he was abusing her for her natural agitation. He beckoned coolly to the waitress while Nora quivered with indignation and remorse. That afternoon she had sneered inwardly when Raymond delivered his little lecture, but she did not feel like sneering now. It was all very well fo.r Conny to reassert that they had done nothing. If everything was so open and above board, why didn’t he come to Dangerfield House? Or, if he wished to offer her hospitality. what was the matter with Prince’s, where she was well-known and no possible criticism could have attached to their being seen together? But here, this little nest in what was virtually a back alley—to be caught here like any other sneaking woman afraid of the light of day, was significant. “Now before we go, let’s have a few straight words,” Connover said when he had settled his bill. “It would be just as well if you mentioned this to Raymond—our having tea together.” Imperceptibly Nora shook her head. She was afraid of Raymond. Suddenly he had loomed up in her imagination as a monstrous figure with the power to deal out cruel punishments. Connover, however, failed to notice her faintly expressed negation. “You can say that we happened to meet in the street and that I asked you to have tea with me. Surely there’s nothing unnatural in that.” “You don’t understand,” she muttered wearily, “and I can’t make you. It’s—it’s all of it put together that makes the whole thing unnatural.” Connover laughed disagreeably. “This ought to be a lesson to me. I never before realised how dangerous it might be to take the wife of a friend out to tea. I’ll be more careful in future.” “Conny, you’re a hypocrite!” “Oh, certainly! Anything else?” “A —a beast. You made love to me ” “Jove, so I did!” he mocked. “And of course you hated it.” “I hate you!” she flashed back. “That’s evident. But couldn’t you moderate your voice a little? There may be another Miss Adams lurking under the seat—or perhaps old Clayton will come crawling out on all fours to cry ‘Boo’ at you.” Shaking in every limb, biting her lip in the vain hope of keeping back the floor of tears, Nora got up again and made her way blindly to the door. Connover followed with an air of nonchalance, but inwardly he was furious with her and with the circumstances which had led up to this disagreeable contretemps. Although he had tried to assure Nora that It was nothing to get excited about, he could not trust her to take that line with Raymond Clayton. Also there was the fact that he had rather avoided Clayton of late and kept away from Dangerfield House. Yet somehow Clayton had got wind of his surreptitious meetings with Nora. Clayton had warned his wife, specifically mentioning the name of Harold Riffe, Earl of Connover. It meant that Nora had flown in the face of her husband’s authority—if any husband can be said to possess such a thing in these days. The husbands of Connover’s world would have laughed the idea to scorn, but for all of Raymond Clayton’s wealth he would never belong to the world of Lord Connover. “Suburban —like Nora,” Connover scoffed uneasily. In the narrow cobbled passage Nora threw distasteful glances to left and .right. Never had the little shops looked so mean and sordid —a back alley, indeed! What was the wife of Raymond Clayton doing here, picking her way in dainty shoes over the uneven rubbish-littered footway? It was raining a little and the night had closed in. She was grateful for that. White, blurred faces gleamed against the dusky background; a wretched hag with a tray of matches held out a beseeching palm, and was rewarded with sixpence from Connover far her whining. “I hadn’t any idea it was so late,” Nora gasped. “It’s not late—not more than halfpast six. Where did you leave your car?” "I sent it home,” she replied. He whistled softly between his teeth. Dismissing her car did not help Nora as to appearances, he reflected. “Well, I must find you a taxi. I suppose that will be a business with the rain coming on.” It was a business. Piccadilly flowed solidly with traffic on pavement and roadway; all the big shops emptying at once, a hot, hurrying, steaming mass of humanity thrusting towards home. “I’ll get back quicker if I walk,” Nora said. But finally Connover found her a taxi, and put her into it. By this time he had nothing more to say except good-bye. Her mood of anxiety bored him. Unable to hurrjr the taxi, Nora resigned herself to its slow, impeded crawl. It smelt damp and musty, and the unpleasant odour seemed to soak into her until she felt herself to be part and parcel of it. What was it Conny had told her to do? She was to mention casually to Raymond that they had run into each other by accident, and he had asked her to have tea with him. No—decidedly, it wouldn’t do.

Author of ■' The House o J the Secret ' Conscience ' A Cinderella ot Mayfair. " 6c 6c

The memory of Bessie Adams’s pale, indifferent glance came to her in a sickening fashion. Miss Adams was as devoted to Raymond as a dog to its master. Only, unfortunately, unlike a dog she could use her tongue in speech. She would find some way to let Raymond know, and doubtless the tale would be embroidered. Nora shuddered, trying to recall details of her conversation with Connover. He had been making love to her, and no one could deny that she had not responded to a certain extent. Would the tale really require embroidery to be effective? Just in itself, wasn’t it quite enough? Then Nora’s smooth brows drew together in struggle with a daring idea. Once or twice she had complained mildly to Raymond that his secretary just missed being rude to her; she had even pretended a sort of jealousy of Bessie Adam! That might possibly be used to advantage in this affair. If only she could establish an alibi for herself, it would be an easy matter to give Bessie Adams the lie. Ah, that -was an idea! Tapping on the window, Nora caught tho driver’s attention and then leaned out and spoke to him, changing the address to Cora Methune’s. The rain was now coming down in sheets —real rain, with no nonsense about it, and of a quality which blotted out the world. Nora’s sables were drenched and bedraggled in the moment that she waited on the door-step after ringing Mrs. Methune’s bell. She felt as much a mendicant as the old hag in the alley—a mendicant without even the pretence of a tray of matches. The little house was shrouded in darkness save fo.r a dim gleam through the fanlight over the door. That moment of waiting seemed an eternity, but finally the door opened and Nora, streaming with rain, sought shelter within. “Mrs. Methune?” she panted. “May I see her? I suppose she’s dressing to go to the theatre, but— *’ “Madam has already gone to the theatre,” said the maid who had opened the door. “Oh!” Nora quavered helplessly. “She left early this evening,” the maid informed her, “because it was coming on to rain. You ’ave 'ad a. soaking, madam!” “Yes, it’s dreadful,” Nora agreed. “Could I ring up the theatre on the telephone? It’s most important or I “I’m very sorry, madam. You could ring up, but she wouldn’t be told. Mrs. Methune is most particular about messages. I couldn’t get through to her myself, not if the house was; to catch fire. Nobody could—telegrams nor nothing—until after the show. Madam says they’d likely upset her. I believe once she was upset that way and

couldn’t do her part that evening.” Little puddles were gathering around Nora’s feet, and she apologised for her unpleasantly sodden condition. The maid, a good-natured soul, assured her that it didn’t matter, and invited her into the drawing-room to dry herself. "There’s not much of a fire, but I can poke it up,” she said cheerfully. Nora shook her head. “Don’t bother for me. I must get home. Heavens, is your clock right?” “I think so,” replied the maid. It was now well after seven, and by this time Raymond would be dressing for dinner and wondering what had become of his wife. Another inquiry elicited the information that Mrs. Methune would be back as soon as possible after the theatre, and was not entertaining a supper party. “Then I’ll leave a note for her,” Nora said. That seemed to solve the problem as well as it could be solved. She reflected that Cora Methune was a woman of deep sympathies for the unfortunates of her own sex—among whom at this moment Nora counted herself—and would not give her away. These little conspiracies!—esprit de sexe, as someone called it. So she sat down and scrawled her note: Cora, dearest! I am in rather a hole. Will explain when I see you. The point is, that if Raymond should happen to ask you if I’d been with you all this afternoon, say “Yes.” Say I’ve been here in your house for tea and only left when you went to the theatre. I do rely on you, dear, to help me out.—Yours in great haste, Nora Clayton. “There,” she said, sealing the envelope with shaking fingers. “Do see that Mrs. Methune gets this the moment she comes in. It’s most important.” The maid promised, and was rewarded with half-a-crown and a wan smile. CHAPTER XVIII. Once, in a past dimly recalled, Raymond Clayton had had a dream of great riches. In those simple days,

with a tent over his head at night, the stars for candles, the wine of spring waters for his thirst, and a glowing camp fire for his domestic hearth, he had not known how rich he was. But he knew now.

The hollow mockery of the master’s footsteps in an empty mansion! Clayton hated Dangerfield House — too small for scattered hopes, too big for happiness which rattled like a withered kernel in that pretentious shell. He hated it, and at this moment he hated his money which had bought him a wife.

Money-getting had been a good game, but the prize held no savour. And, indeed, he had won no more than a challenge cup charged with a bitter brew. That day they had been battering him cruelly on 'Change—trying to get from him the golden goblet that in his heart of hearts he did not want to keep. Yet he had defended it. He wondered what Nora would say if he told her that keeping money was more difficult than getting it; that for two pins he’d let the whole stream escape through his fingers from sheer lack of interest. She would be protected by her settlements to the tune of ten thousand a year or so. His lips curled derisively. It had taken Nora less than a year to get accustomed to wealth, and an income of ten thousand would now strike her as paltry. Then Clayton smiled, and it was a pleasant smile. The tomblike silence of marble corridors and high-painted ceilings was broken suddenly by a shrill clamour and the scramble of eager, welcoming feet. His little dog —not so young but none the less loving and faithful—was racing to give him welcome. He bent, patted the shaggy head, held out his hand to be licked, and said, “Come on, old fellow! That’s right! Glad to see me, aren’t you? That’s right! We’ll have a run after dinner if the rain lets up.” At the top of the ornate stairs Clayton encountered his valet, who was sent to inquire of Mrs. Clayton’s maid whether or not the mistress of this splendid establishment was home. The valet came back to say that madam had not yet returned. Clayton looked at his watch. From Cora Methune’s he had gone to his club that afternoon to meet one or two of the men who had battered him on 'Change—although they didn’t know that he knew—-to win a few pounds from them at bridge. It was now seven o’clock, and the suspicion of a fear that something might have happened to Nora sent him to the telephone. Accidents had been known to occur. He rang up his garage, * and, to his surprise, was answered by Swann, the chauffeur who had once been in Connover’s service and was now Nora's special property. The man was civil, of course, and apparently there was nothing concealed behind his assertion that he had driven Mrs. Clayton only to Piccadilly Circus and then had been told that he would be needed no more that afternoon. But Raymond Clayton chose to read into the simple statement a wealth of deceit. He slammed up the receiver angrily; then smiled with rueful repentance. Jealous. Could anything be more uftdignified than the spectacle of a jealous husband! Well, he was lonely, too. His little talk with Nora that afternoon had cut him off from her more effectually than he had cut Swann off the telephone. He couldn’t, so to speak, ring her up again. The call —if ever there was one—would have to come from her, and a chill descended upon him as he thought how unlikely that would be. The prospect of the future frightended him. He had hoped for child-

ren . . . there was Bessie. Poor Bessie, with her inky hair and pallid face, her singular devotion that made no claim upon him, her curious, self-contained life. He was very fond of Bessie and she was his child, of course, but he had never properly acknowledged her and now it was too late. He wondered if she, too, were lonely. She did not seem to be unhappy, but it was a little strange that she should have divined his own secret in that respect. Not that she had said anything—but all the same she knew.

How still it was, save for the lashing of the rain. The valet had laid out everything but he would not intrude unless rung for, and Clayton was unlikely to ring. He could never get used to that valet who had come to him from a duke and had the air of never being able to forget his former exalted station. It cost Clayton more than it was worth to try to live up to him. The dressing-room adjoined Nora’s and in there her maid, familiarly known as Lutie—her name was Lutetia Darcy —swished about discreetly making a little work for herself. But when Clayton was nearly arrayed for the formal meal—another trial!—a slight commotion and a flutter of conversation announced the arrival of Nora. So she was home at last! His face hardened a little—now that he knew her to be safe —and the jealous suspicions returned in full force. Sometimes she would come to the door look in to see if he were there, and pass a few words with him; but more often it was he who sought her out, although generally it happened to be at an inconvenient moment, when she was having her hair set in its waves, or being assisted into a difficult frock. To-night there was no advances on either side, and when Calyton was ready he went downstairs and despite the offended calm of his super-butler, took the liberty of mixing himself a common gin and bitters. Nora sailed into the drawing-room only ten minutes late, having in some marvellous feminine fashion managed a bath and a ravishing toilette in about the same time that takes the average man to shave and locate his collarbutton. (.To be continued.).