The Nets of Fate

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 332, 18 April 1928, Page 5

The Nets of Fate

~ SERIAL STORY

By

OTTWELL BINNS

CHAPTER V.—Continued. Jocelyn heard him, but gave no sign, and hurried on, her ears tingling. As she passed the first house in the village street, a slatternly woman with a child in her arms hurried to the door. It was the same at the next house and the next, and when she came to the head of the street, chancing to look back, she saw that it was full of gossiping women, and she guessed that the porter or his landlord the verger had been very busy. She gave a little embarrassed laugh and hurried on. By the lych-gate she found a car standing, and as she passed through into the churchyard, she told herself that Dorian had come down from town that way, that no doubt he was inside making the final arrangements. She glanced up at the clock in the tower. The fingers pointed to ten minutes past two, and the wedding was timed for quarter-past. She had but five minutes to wait, and full cf confidence that Dorian awaited her within, she passed through the Norman doorway into the little church. As she did so, a man with a straggling beard, who wore a verger’s robe, rose out of a pew where he had been lolling and approached her, awkwardly. “Be you one o’ the parties what be going to be joined in holy matrimony?” he asked. Her face flamed as she looked round the church and found it empty, save for herself and the verger. But she answered as calmly as she could. “Yes, I am!” “Then please to step this way, Miss.” She followed him up the aisle, and he ushered her into a side pew. “Maybe you’ll like to zit here till the gentleman do come, Miss?”

“Thank you,” she said calmly, and took the proffered seat. “Till the gentleman do come.” The words echoed in her ears and lillec her with foreboding. Then Doriar had not yet arrived, and there was in other train until ten minutes pas three. Then she remembered th< car outside, and drew comfort there from. No doubt it was Dorian's, n< doubt he was in the vestry talking to the parson, and would presentl; make his appearance. She felt ; little tumult of indignation that h should keep her waiting so, but sh repressed it, telling herself that pei haps it was not in his power to hel; it. A couple of minutes passed, the] there was a stir at the door by whicl she herself had entered. She glance round hopefully. Four village wome: entered and stumbled noisily into back seat, having unquestionabl come to play the role of sightseer* ! She hastily averted her eyes, cor i scions that the women were starin jat her. Another stir. followed b

the entrance of more women; and as the clock chimed the quarter, yet an- ! other shuffling of feet and yet more , feminine sightseers. But the third time she did not look round. She felt j it an intense humiliation to sit there 1 waiting for her bridegroom, with all those women knowing that she so waited, and staring at her with cui ious < eyes. Her face burned. ! Five minutes more passed, and still : Dorian Paxton had not put in an ap- : pearance. Her face was no longer scarlet, it had grown quite white, aud her eyes were fixed on the brass lectern just a little way in front of her, while she strove to shut her ears to the audible comments of the spectators in the pews. More minutes passed, then she caught the sound of an iron latch and the creak of a door on heavy hinges. “Dorian!” she whispered to herself. “Dorian —at last!” But it was not her lover. It was an ascetic-faced clergyman In surplice and stole who, after giving one glance at the women in the nave, crossed the chancel and addressed her in a gentle voice. “Miss Ambrose, would you care to wait in the vestry?” She gave a gasp, and only with an effort kept back the unbidden tears. “Thank j'ou! If—if ” “Please come with me then, Miss Ambrose.” She rose from her seat, and resolutely averting her face from the watchful women followed him across the chancel, and through the door that gave admission to the vestry. Gravely he placed a chair for her, and as she sank into it, he said quietly, “Mr. Paxton is a little late. Do you know where he is?” She shook her head. “No,” she reJ plied. “I expected to find him waitj ing for me at the station.” The clergyman looked thougthful. “He should have been in the village, then?” l “That is what I expected. He said 1 he was coming down to make arrange- : ments this morning.” ■ “The arrangements were made this - morning—by telegraph,” answered the > clergyman quietly. “I have not seen ' Mr. Paxton at all; and perhaps I ought r to tell you that there Is no other ~ train calling here from town until ten 3 minutes past three ” 3 “Yes, I know,” answered Jocelyn quickly. “And that, if Mr. Paxton is relying j on it, will be too late. A marriage } service is only legal In England be--3 tween the hours of 8 a.m. and 3 p.m., ! so I hope Mr. Paxton Is either in the j village or has some other means of t travelling. A car perhaps : “There was a car at the lych-gate. I thought it was Dorian’s!” g “I wish it had been,” said the y clergyman quietly. “As a matter qi

fact, it belongs to a friend of mine!” He. looked at her and saw the trouble in ber eyes, then he moved toward the door. ‘‘Miss Ambrose, you do not mind me leaving you alone for a little while? There is a little matter that X can attend to while we are waiting.” He disappeared, closing the door behind him; and in mute misery Jocelyn Ambrose waited while the leaden-footed minutes crawled by. Then at last the clock in the tower chimed, and there followed the strokes of the hour. “One! two! three!” She rose to her feet as the door opened to admit the clergyman. Her face was very pale, and her mouth firmly set. The priest looked at her sympathetically. “Mr. Paxton has not arrived. I am afraid that your marriage with him will have to be postponed to another day, Miss Ambrose." Jocelyn looked at him with unflinching eyes. “I shall never marry him now,” she said, firmly. “Well, as to that you know best. Miss Ambrose.” “I should like to thank you for all your consideration, sir,” the girl said quickly. “It was more than kind of you to ask me in here and ” “Please don’t, Miss Ambrose. That was no more than the merest courtesy. But there is one other little service I want to do for you. Those women are still in the church. They know now that you cannot be married, and they are waiting to see you leave.” He saw the girl’s sensitive face flinch, and hurried on. “But there is no need that you should undergo that ordeal. You can slip out of this door through my garden and so to the lane at the back of my house. If you follow it, it will bring you to the next station on the line, a

couple of miles away, and easy walking. You will thus avoid all observation, and these women will be in ignorance that you have left, until I tell them.” “Oh, thank you, thank you so much.” | The priest saw that she was on the i verge of tears, and being a man wise in understanding, he knew that only I action could stave off the threatened | outbreak. “Then you must go at once,” he said ; briskly. “And some day you must j write and tell me the sequel of this afternoon. My name is Hunter — Charles Hunter, and I am vicar here.” Before she could answer he had opened the door. “Follow the path straight up to the house and through ] the garden to the gate behind. Turn ! to the right when you enter the lane. | Good afternoon. Miss Ambrose.” CHAPTER VI. | Seven or eight minutes after Joce- ) lyn Ambrose had left the church, the I stopping train from London drew up | at Arnhurst Station, and two passen- | gers alighted. One of them was a local i farmer, the other was Mr. Dorian Pax- ! ton, and to him, while the stationmaster was talking to the guard, the , porter addressed himself. “Be ee Mr. Paxton?” he asked.

Dorian Paxton, who was in a hurry, 1 stopped in surprise. s “Yes, I am,” he said brusquely, “but J what the deuce has it got to do w..tt 1 you?” ' "Nothing! Nothing at all, zir, but j you’m late for that wedding, an’ those . women there be waiting for to see ‘ the young lady come to the station,” j “Oh, they are, are they? D t them!” He flung his ticket in the face of | the porter and hurried down the steps, i wrath in his heart. The women in ' the road made a path for him, staring at him curiously, and from the remarks , that he caught, he knew, that they { had made a shrewd guess at his iden- j tity. But he ignored them utterly and pressed on his way up the hill to the church. He found the door closed but trying the old-fashioned latch, he discovered that the door was not locked, and thrusting it open, he 1 passed inside. Except for himself ' there was no one in the building. He gave a hasty glance round, and th .*n retreated to the yard again. A man ' was coming up the path, and as he saw Dorian Paxton emerge from tne church, the man, who was the verger, hurried toward him.

“Be you Mr. Dorian Paxton?” he asked quickly. “Yes,”' answered Paxton sharply. “Who are you?” "Me! Oh, Ibe Rufus White, verger of this parish, and I thought I d like to tell you that the young lady waited till three, which be the lawful limit, an’ then went away.” “Which way did she go? Where has she gone?” demanded Paxton. "That I can’t tell you, rightly, zir. You see, we was all a-waiting in church wonderin’ what had happened to hinder you, an’ the young lady was in the vestry where the parson had bidden her go, when the clock struck three, an’ about five minutes after the parson came into the church, an’ told : the women that they could all go ■ home as the wedding was unavoid- , | ably postponed. The women fell over one another trying to get out first, ! l .

hoping to see the maid leave, for the sex be terr’ble cruel that way; bnt for my part I waited till the parson had gone, then I took a peep in the vestry, being mortal sure that the young lady would be there stilL But I was mistaken, she’d gone, and if any man axes me, I should say she’d gone no further than the parson’s house, where I’ll warrant she is at this blessed min ’’ “That’s the parson’s house, isn’t, it?” interrupted Paxton, with a jerk of his head toward the beautiful old vicarage. “Yes, that be the place, and if yon was to ax my advice, why I should say have a talk with his reverence. But Dorian Paxton did not wait io hear any more. Throwing the verger shilling he hurried toward the house, and half a minute later had his hand on the brass knocker, but before he could raise it, the door opened, revealing the Rev. Charles Hunter. “Are you the vicar of this parish, sir?” asked Paxton, quickly. “I have that honour, sir,” said the cleric, quietly estimating his visitor with shrewd eyes. “My name is Paxton. I was to have been married in your church this afternoon. Unfortunately, coming down by motor I had an accident, and was forced to walk two miles to a station. I missed the earlier train, and have only just arrived.” “I am very glad to hear that explanation,” said the vicar. "To tell the truth I was afraid that you had treated Miss Ambrose with deliberate cruelty, for it is no light ordeal to wait as she waited—in vam. But why on earth did you not telegraph?” “There was no telegraph department at the place where I had the breakdown. and I never thought about the railway service until I was almost here.” ' The vicar nodded. “That is perhaps excusable—under the circumstances, but all the same it brought much unnecessary suffering to Miss Ambrose, and I am afraid you will not find her very quick to forgive all that she has undergone.” (To be continued).