The Great Anvil

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 368, 31 May 1928, Page 6

The Great Anvil

By

Rowan Glen.

Author of ” The Best G»ft of All,* “ The Bishop's Masquerade,” &c., &.C

CHAPTER IX. He heard a sharply-given command from Carruthers, but hearing, paid no heed. It was infinitely better, so lie told himself, to risk a reprimand from his employer than to risk the possibility of rousing the latter’s suspicions. Still holding Mary in his strong arms, he stepped swiftly upwards. He knew that, with one hand on the balustrade, the blind man was following him slowly. Once in the corridor, Pratt set his burden down. ‘‘Are you all right?” he whispered. ‘’Can you manage by yourself now?” “Yes—yes,” she told him. “I’m going to Mrs. Hallerton’s room. But tell me —he didn’t guess? I don’t think that I’ve ever fainted before, and I don’t know whether I said anything, or whether ” “He seemed a bit queer-like,” Pratt told her. “He asked me who you were, and, for his sake, I said that I’d never seen you before. And now hurry round the corner, and I’ll tell him that I handed you over to someone. If he wants to be told who you are, I’ll fob him off with some story or other. Luckily for you, no one was about when you tumbled down, so he can’t get information from anyone but me.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you with all my heart.” She was gone on that, and next moment Pratt, whistling a tune quietly and with hands in his pockets, strolled back to meet Carruthers.

“Here I am, sir,” he announced genially. “The young lady’s come to herself again, and is as perky as you please. I told her that she’s givc|i us a full-sized scare, and she said that she was very sorry, but that—that she did that sort of thing occasionally.” “What sort of thing?” Carruthers demanded. “Why—fainted, sir! Went off all at once for no reason that she or the doctors could tell.” A heavy frown had settled on Carruthers’s brow. “Take me to my room,” lie said, with more than usual brusqueness. “I’ve stood here waiting for you quite long enough.” Once in the bedroom Carruthers set tied himself in the big wicker armchair to which he had been guided, and remained silent for nearly half a minute, while, not without something of anxiety, Pratt watched him. “Look here, Pratt,” Carruthers began at last, “next time I give an order, I want you to obey it. Who that girl was who fainted on the staircase I don’t know, and I’m not likely to; but you had no right to take her away when I told you to stay -where you were.”

“Pardon, sir, but did you say that you told me to stay where I was?” “Yes; you know I did. When you suggested taking the girl up to the servant that you’d seen, I told you to wait where you were and to call out to the servant instead. But you took your own way. That sort of thing’s no good to me. I’m not so helpless as I used to be, but I’m pretty helpless

still, and the man who’s employed to look after me must be one who gives instant and implicit obedience, and whom I can trust completely. Do you understand?” Pratt bridled. Personal pride he had in plenty, and the suggestion that he had been, or was likely to be, disloyal had stung him. “I understand,” he returned, “that you’re finding fault with me for no cause. I haven’t been with you for very long, sir, but because I }ike you, and because the money’s good ?,ud the work’s light, I’ve tried to do my best. I don’t mind you having me on the mat and cursing a bit if I fail in my duties, but as for this drum-majoring about nothing—well, I had enough of that in the army.” “What’s the idea, Pratt?” Carruthers asked slowly. “Are you suggesting that I’m never to be allowed to criticise you? If that’s what you mean, then you make the position impossible.” “It just corqes to this, sir,” the other went on. “I’m happy in my job with you, but I wouldn’t be if I thought that I was going to be blamed for little mistakes that anyone might make. If I give you satisfaction, then that’s all right; if I don’t, then the moment you tell me so, I’m ready to leave. I can’t say fairer than that.” “No,” Carruthers agreed, “I don’t suppose you can.”

He took a cigarette from his case, and Pratt struck a match for it. “Shall I help you to undress, sir?” he asked. “Or would you like me to come back later on?”

“I’d like you,” he was told, “to stay just where you are.” Having inhaled a mouthful of smoke Carruthers exhaled it from his nostrils. Then the flicker of a smile showed at his mouth-corners. “Pratt,” he said, “I warned you when you accepted this post with me that it mightn’t be quite so easy and pleasant as you fancied. I believe that in the old days—before my accident, I mean—l was a fairly amiable sort of person. Even then, of course, there were certain rules that I al-

ways laid down and always demanded should be kept, but I don’t think I could be called irritable.” He paused, searching for the words which could be formed into the phrase which he wished to speak. He realised quite well how competent and how trustworthy a servant Oliver Pratt had proved himself; realised, too, that another so willing to be helpful, so hearteningly cheerful of disposition, and so generally satisactory, might be hard to find. “Pratt,” he went on, “I know a good mail when I meet him. I’ve never seen you, but you’ve been described to me, and anyhow, I think I know you fairly well by this time. I don’t •want to hear any more talk about your leaving me. The thing for you to do is to tell me what you’ve fixed about our getting to Apple-Warley.” When Pratt left the room some 20 minutes later, he <yd so with the air of one for whom the world wags uncommonly well. CHAPTER X. Wliile master and man had been discussing their plans for the following day, exactly the same type of discussion had been conducted in Mrs. Hallerton’s bedroom.” “I’m inclined to agree,” the widow' said when Mary had brought a long sentence to an end. “If he really goes to Apple-Warley—and there’s every reason to suppose he will do that—then your only chance of preventing him discovering everything will be to get there sooner than he does. But d’you think you’ll be able to see the thing through?” “I must!” Mary answered. “If you’ll let me go by the first train in the morning, I promise to come back as soon as ever I can.” “Don’t worry about that part of it,” the other comforted her. “I’m thinking of you at the moment, and not at all of myself. Go to this place at the first possible moment to-morrow. Your husband’s servant is iu your confidence now, so I’ll try to make a point of seeing him alone in the morning,

and telling him where you’ve gone. “For my own part, I don’t feel too hopeful. Somehow it doesn’t seem reasonable to think that you’re going to go on forever keeping this husband of yours in the dark. I feel that some day, somewhere, he’ll stumble on the truth.”

“He mustn’t,” was all that Mary could say. “He mustn’t!”

The hours of that night were very long for Mary, and of them all only two were passed in sleep. Throughout the others her tired brain was forced to grapple, not merely with the old perplexities and torturing visions, but with a score of new alarms.

She knew that a return to AppleWarley was inevitable, but knew, too, that it would’ be an ordeal which would test her courage rackiugly. She would have to humble herself to completeness, would have to run the risk of being disbelieved, and insulted, and mocked. She would be pointed at as the woman who had run away with her lover from a home to which, at that very time, her husband was returning.

Yet to comfort her there came a belief so strong that it amounted almost to knowledge that, if she could first warn all those old acquaintances of hie whom he was likely to seek out, then, for Harvey Carruthers’s sake, the truth would not be told.

True, he might put a chance question to someone whom she had not been able to approach, but that was unlikely and was, in any case, one of the risks which, willy-nilly, must be run.

Only one person she really feared, and that person was Arthur Welland. She was not certain whether he had gone back to Apple-Warley, but knowing him as she now did, she realised that nothing of shame would keep him away.

He was, as he would have confessed readily enough, a law unto himself; egotistical; untrammelled by any respect for what he regarded as irritating conventions. If, by grim mischance, he and Harvey Carruthers should meet, then Welland, •chafing under repeated rebuffs, which she.

Mary, had dealt to him, might conceivably carry out the half-threat he had made and, in that coldly-cynical way of his, tell the blind man just how matters stood. Only a few servants were astir when Mary rose, but by the time sho had bathed and dressed, two -waiters were busying themselves in the cof-fee-room, and one of these, having listened surprisedly to her request, contrived to procure coffee and rolls for her. While the morning was still 4 young, Mary, with her heart pounding dis tressingly, reached the tiny station at Apple-Warley, and set out, half-faint with nervousness, toward the village itself. She did not know at what time the man whom she lovecl would arrive there, but, buoyed up by her intense desire to save him from the blow that might possibly fall, she sought out first one and then another of his onetime friends. They received her much as she had expected them to receive her. Yet, on the w T hole, there was more of kindliness in their attitude than she had dared to anticipate. Whatever their thoughts might have been, no one among them protested disbelief in the tragic story that she had to tell. Each one promised that in the event of him or her meeting Harvey Carruthers, then the story that his mother had told of Mary’s death would remain undenied. She was standing in the hall of a hotel to which it wa3 almost certain that her husband would come. Beside her was Matthew Wilkinson, the hotel’s proprietor, a bluff-faced, kindlyeyed man of middle-age, who had always given to Carruthers a staunch liking. “So far as I’m concerned, he won’t know a thing,” he assured the girl now*. “Of course, someone may babble, and then the whole story will have to come out. But let’s hope that that won’t happen. “Anyhow', I know what to say now. and if by chance he should come to me, I’ll do what I can, not only for his sake—but for yours, if I may say so. You see—well! I know chat w T hat

you’ve told me Is right. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.” He was about to move away when he felt a sudden tugging at his sleeve heard his companion speaking swiltly: “He’s coming!” she whispered. “Yonder he is with his servant, near to the church. They’re coming here. Oh! I—l must get away.” “You can leave by the other door, if you like,” he pointed out. “No one will see you, and if you want to catch that train back to Quarrenford, youU he in good time. Leave things to m*. and I’ll do the best I can. When Carruthers reached the door of the hotel, he paused. “Just go inside and ask if Mr. Wilkinson’s about,” he said to Pratt 1“ wait here.” Before Pratt could make 'any 20®’ ment, or had the chance to obey, &■’ was pushed good-naturedly aside, an<a hand gripped at one of Carruthers - “Why, bless my heart and Matthew Wilkinson exclaimed- 1 isn’t Mr. Harvey Carruthers come » again! Well, this is good! 1 tell you how glad I am to see : and to shake your hand.” . Carruthers had started, but new. returned the pressure of the o fingers - , “Rut of “Wilkinson?” he asked. course it is! I’d know y°nf„ anywhere, though nowadays g He broke off and put a finger moment to his eyes. “I know —and I’m more sor . l can say,” the landlord, retur •. voice grown grave. e saw * that a while back. Somebody » note in some paper, and, of * news went round, as news d place like Apple-Warley.” (To be continued.)