The Great Anvil

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 369, 1 June 1928, Page 5

The Great Anvil

By

Rowan Glen.

Author of " The Best G»ft of All." " The Bishop s Masquerade,” Ac., &c

CHAPTER X.—Continued. Well! come inside sir, and have a talk. You remember the steps?—tour

of 'em. That's the thing! But let me take your arm. . . . Your friend will come, too?” “Yes,” said Carruthers, “but I want to talk to you alone.” He turned towards Pratt. “You’ll find plenty of comfortable places to sit, Pratt,” he told him. “Or perhaps you’d like to go and have a drink? Instinct will tell you where the bar is! I shan’t be with Mr. Wilkinson for more than ten minutes or so.” Seated opposite to the landlord., he waited for some moments listening to the latter’s cheerful but rather labori-ously-produced gossip. "The last time that I met your poor mother, she told me that neither her Por you were likely to come back here,” she said. “I was sorry about that, as you can suppose, for we haven’t got too many of the right, kind ’P Apple-War ley. But there it is! Every day brings its change and, to my mind, some the changes are for th€ worst. You’re going to stay for a hit, Mr. Carruthers?” “I don’t know,” Carruthers said. “I wait you to put my servant and myself up for to-night, anyway. It may be that I’ll wait on, for I seem to be at a perpetual loose-end. and one place as good as another. And now, I *ant you to tell me about my wife.” “About your wife, sir?” “Yes. I’ve met one or two others Denning. and Mrs. Warren, and Mr. Richardson, and Mr. Carter. I’ve come here to-day for the maddest of reasons. if you prefer it, for no reason at “And the reason?” tie landlord asked. Carruthers clenched bis hands and them pressed together. . “I reached Quarrenford yesterday,” ‘te said, “and in the hotel there I met —Miss Sinclair her name was—whose voice was strangely like late wife’s. Further, there was the matter of a telegram that I revived recently, but—” He faltered and turned his face toird the noon sunshine which was joining warmly through the open win-

*‘S ere Q uite alone?” he asked. Quite alone,” Wilkinson assured aim.

I had a fancy, the blind man went JJ* “that someone had come to the .-indow and was standing there looktn7“and listening to us.” the landlord said. “There s 110 one at the window.” ‘hat was true, but it would not •ave been true had he said it a minuie previously. Qn her way from the hotel garden, Av heard her husband’s voice. aw n by it, irresistibly she had

walked on the tips of her toes over the turf, and stood looking in on the face that, so she told herself, she might never see again. Now she was near to the gate, and facing resolutely in the direction of the station.

“You were talking,” Wilkinson went on patiently, “about your reason for having come here. You spoke of someone with a voice like the late Mrs. Carruthers —and said something about a telegram.” “Yes.” Carruthers admitted, “but after all, it doesn’t matter. The voice set me thinking again so deeply about the old days when I was happy here, that I felt I must come back, even if only for a day. But I’ll spend the night. Possibly I’ll go back to Quarrenford to morrow. I’d rather like to talk to Miss Sinclair again. And now, Wilkinson, let’s have a drink, you and T, and I’ll toast your continued prosperity.”

The other laughed, and laughing rose.

“I don’t know so much about the prosperity,” he returned, “but it’ll be a pleasure to drink your health. If you’ll excuse me. I’ll just slip out and see to things myself.” Having closed the door he was walking across the hall when he heard someone step up behind him and speak his name quietly. Turning he saw Carruthers’s servant. “A second, if you please,” the latter said. “I want to tell you something about Mr. Carruthers something seriods.” The landlord nodded. “Come along with me. then.” he answered, “but you’ll need to he quick with what you’ve got to say, because he’s waiting for me.”

Briefly Pratt recited the story with which Wilkinson had already been made familiar by Mary. “So you’re in the know!” the older man commented. “Well, I suppose it’s better so. I heard all about it from his wife ten minutes before you appeared. I’ll see you again presently, and we’ll have a talk.” Their opportunity for that came within the hour. Carruthers was sitting smoking in the garden. when Pratt, a cigarette in one hand and a tankard of beer in the other, discussed

with the sympathetic landlord his per sonal difficulties.

“It's all very fine,” Pratt grumbled, “but it seems to me as if I walk further into trouble every day. I know well enough that I’m doing right in keeping things under my thumb, but if the truth ever does come out, and he discovers that I knew it—well, I won’t want to he near him, that’s all. I can't see how we're going to get from Apple-Warley without someone telling him.” Wilkinson shook his head. “I don’t think there’s much fear of that,” he remarked. “For obvious reasons, no one’s likely to mention his wife to him. The only people who’ll speak to him about her will be good friends who’ve been warned to-day that they’re to let him go on thinking of her as being dead. There’s only one person who might make trouble.”

“What’s the name?” Pratt asked. “Welland —Arthur Welland. He was the man Mrs. Carruthers ran away with. I haven’t seen him myself for the last day or two, but I know that he's been back here. He doesn’t care a whoop for anybody, Mr. Welland doesn’t.”

“Tell me what lie’s like," said Pratt. With great minutenes the landlord did so.

“If I was you, I’d keep your boss in the garden as long as you can,” he ended. “If he insists on going out, keep him away from the main street, if possible.” It was not till evening, however, that Carruthers announced his wish to go beyond the grounds of the hotel. For a long time he had been sitting brooding, and when he spoke, he did so slowly and with a gentleness that made Oliver Pratt, arch his eyebrows. “Pratt,” Carruthers said, “I want you to get my hat and your owv, and my stick. We’re going out —you and I. We’re going to the cemetery. It’s about half a mile to the west of the village. Don’t say anything to anyone, but you’re to take me there. I want —to stand beside my wife's grave. You'll be able to find it for me easily enough.” A hand went up to Pratt's gaping mouth. “Did you hear me, Pratt?” Carruthers asked. “Yes, sir. I’ll get your hat and stick at once, and we’ll start off.” “A damn fine turn things are taking now!” he communed, as he crossed the hall to the little cloak-room. “Showin’ him a grave that isn't there !” They met but few people while they walked in the direction of the cemetery, and of these only one spoke to Carruthers. “My man's taking me out to the cemetery,” the latter said, as he prepared to move on again. His old acquaintance stared at him blankly. “Oh, yes,” he remarked. “Well, I hope to see you soon again, Mr. Carruthers.” He stood there on the footpath till the blind man and his guide had passed from sight. Then, with a shake of the head, he turned about and continued on his way toward the village. “Are we near the gates yet?” Carruthers asked, when they had been walking for some ten minutes. “No, sir,” said Pratt. “I haven’t seen ’em- yet.” “You're quite sure that you took the right road?” “Quite sure, sir! I asked special

about that, though I didn’t say why I wanted to know.”

They were near to a sharp corner then, and both heard someone whistling blithely—someone as yet unseen At the corner the whistler came on them so abruptly that he almost humped into Carruthers. "I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’m afraid I came round with a bit of a rush.”

He was about to step aside, when he looked fully in Carruthers’s face. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed impulsively. “It's Carruthers!” Pratt’s right hand was clenched, and the skin seemed to have drawn taut over his cheek-bones. “Who are you?” Carruthers asked. “Obviously you must be someone whom I used to know.” “That's so,” he was told. “But look here, we’ll be meeting again and I’m in a, tearing hurry at the moment. So, perhaps, are you.” “I —wait a second,” Carruthers said. “1 think I know you. You name’s Welland, isn’t it?"

His lips twisted a little, the younger man glanced toward Pratt. “Yes,” he admitted, “I’m Welland. Is there anything that you want to say to me—or ask me?” “There is,” Carruthers said. “Of all the people in Applq-Wavley, you’re the one whom I was most anxious to meet.” CHAPTER Xt. In the ensuing silence Welland looked again at Pratt, and. with a sort ot' aloof amusement, noted that the latter had raised a finger and was tapping it against his lips in mute warning. Whoever this man might be, he had apparenlty that knowledge which Harvey. Carruthers lacked: was. therefore, one of the conspirators in the scheme of secrecy originated by the blind man’s mother and now carried on by his wife. “And so you’re anxious to meet me?” Welland commented. “That's flattering, Carruthers, because you and I never got to know each other just so well as I’d have liked. By the way—won’t you introduce me to your friend?”

On his master’s behalf Pratt answered the question. “My name's Oliver Pratt, sir,” he returned, “and I'm Mr. Carruthers’s servant. I’ve been with him since soon after he came out of hospital. You’ll have heard, likely, that he was taken there after an accident on board ship?”

Welland nodded. His manner was casual, and the rather bored expression in his eyes had become accentuated.

“Oh. yes,” he said. “It’s some time now since I heard all about that.”

Again there was a silence, and this time it was ended by Carruthers. “You say that you’re in a hurry. Welland,” he remarked. “Well, of course, it wouldn’t he fair of me to keep you late for your appointment. Yet we must have a talk. I rather think I'll be leaving here to-morrow, and so it might be difficult for you and me to fix up another meeting. You're going to the village now?”

“Yes. I wanted to write a note before the last collection of letters. Still. I suppose that can wait till the morning. of necessary. But if you’re going to the cemetery, you're not likely to be hack in the village for an hour or so. I could call to see you then, if that would do. I suppose you're staying at the hotel?” Carruthers's face was deeply

troubled, and apparently he had not heard the other’s final question.

“1 could meet you in an hour,” he said, “but I think that it might he best if my man and V walked back with you now. I shan't go to the cemetery this evening. Somehow or other, my mood for that has passed. Perhaps I shan’t go at all. She —she mightn’t want me stand in a place which makes sadness still more sad . . . Come, Pratt! We’ll turn about.”

“As you wish,” Welland remarked, falling in by the other’s side and keeping pace with him. “I’ll be very interested to hear from your own lips the story of this bad luck that came to you at sea.” Carruthers shok his head in a gesture of impatience.

“There’s nothing in that,” he answered. “God knows that blindness is a big enough burden for a man to bear, but, compared to my other loss, ■ it’s nothing. If my wife had been left to me, I don’t think I'd have grumbled over much about, my loss of sight. But T don’t want to speak about myself. 1 didn’t come to AppleWarley to do that.” “You wanted.” Welland suggested, “to speak about Mary.” “Yes. I never thought that I’d have had the courage to return. I’m one of those who talk least about the things which they feel most deeply. After my accident, my mother took me to a new home. She did that because she knew that, since Mary’s death, Apple-Warley must be a place of pain for me. Y'et here I am, and I’ve talked more about my wife to-day than on any day since I first heard of her death.” Welland's eyebrows were raised in surprise, and he looked at Pratt as though seeking confirmation of what the man walking between them had said. Noting the servant’s brisk nod, he went on: “So you’ve been meeting old friends, eh? It must have been difficult for them to talk to you about what happened while you were away, Carruthers. I hope you won't expect me to say much. You see, Mary and I were always good friends, and, like you, l hate talking about anything sad. You know that I’m sorry for you. I need scarcely tell you that.” Carruthers’ murmured reply was so low as to be almost inaudible. But he did not speak again of Mary till the hotel was reached. When he had been guided into a small, private parlour which Matthew Wilkinson had put at his disposal, he spoke quietly to Pratt.