The Great Anvil

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 379, 13 June 1928, Page 5

The Great Anvil

BY

Rowan Glen.

Author of “The Best Gift of All, “ The Bishop * Masquerade," &c., &c

CHAPTER XXI (Continued) It was then that Felton knew a. real struggle with himself. Philanderer by nature though he was, he had never during the course of his world roaming met a woman who had made so strong and so genuine an appeal to the better part of him as did this womant —he wife of his friend. She seeemed at the moment so weak, so tired, and so greatly in need of help, that his first impulse was to say to her: “First and last I care for you, and I’ll do whatever you ask me to do.” But there was that previous promise of his; the promise which must be kept unless he was to know himself disloyal. "I can’t prevent you going from here, and it might be difficult for me to follow you,” he said. “This detective fellow can find you again, of course—in time. But I’ve got to stand by Harvey, Mrs. Carruthers, and I do so believing that everything will come right yet. Of course, there must be some things that lie has kept secret from me, but I’m certain you have nothing to fear. “I’ll meet yo uto this extent. Give me your promise to send me your new address, and I’ll try to fix that Harvey stays on at Quarrenford meantime.” It was a respite only, but Mary welcomed it. “You’re Harvey’s friend,” she said, “and I know that you’re acting, as you think, for the best. But I hope that, though you’ll know where to find me, you won’t bring Harvey there.” When she was alone, there dawned in her a desire which, though she felt half-awed by it, developed swiftly till it had become a determination. However she might plan the future, she felt that before facing the future she must be satisfied on one point; must find out for herself whether Arthur Welland had lied in speaking as he had spoken of Harvey and the nurse at Quarrenford. To go there, as Mary realised clearly enough, would be to court detection, but obviously that was a risk which must be run. And, after all, it was not a big one. It seemed that her husband and his servant were at Apple-Warlev, and her visit to Quarrenford would be very brief. All that she wished to do was to see and question this Nurse Robinson. In the early afternoon when she had deposited her cases at a quiet boarding-house half a mile or so dis-

tant from the road in which she had previously stayed, Mary, bowing to the mastering impulse that had come to her, set out for the village where she would find this girl whom, so she had been told, Harvey loved. Within ten minutes of stepping fro mthe train at Quarrenford, Mary had reached the Cottage Hospital. A jumble of emotions were warring in her, but, though her nerves were frayed, and she felt near to the point of collapse,' the desire to question in this other woman had grown, if anything, more insistent than before. Seated in the hospital’s tiny waitingroom, she strove vainly to contrive some scheme which she could follow, should she be convinced that what Welland had told her had been indeed true. Long since she had ceased to believe in the possibility of her husband still loving her. It was not to be expected that a man who has seen an idol go crashing to the ground could,- as it were, pick those pieces up and weld them together again. There had been a time when she would have said that even if Harry should one day cease to care for her, he would at least have no love left for any one else. But over and over again of late she had told herself that this belief was one springing, in the main, from self-conceit. There was no reason why the man who had once loved her should not have come to regard that love as spurious, should not have come to

vision another woman as his real lifemate. It was while Mary was busy with these gloomy thoughts that the waiting room door was opened, and a nurse stepped in. “Miss Sinclair?” the newcomer asked brightly. “You called to see Nurse Robinson?” Mary rose. “Yes,” she answeired quietly. “Are you ” She faltered and the young nurse smiled. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but Nurse Robinson’s out at the moment, though she may be back at any time. She’s gone for a walk with a blind gentleman who was in one of the private wards here not long ago.” “Thank you,” Mary managed. “I —I won’t wait then, but I may call back later. You think that she’ll be in soon?” “Almost certain to,” the girl said. “Anyhow, if you don’t see her this evening, perhaps you could arrange to call again to-morrow?” “I’m afraid not,” Mary answered. “I want to get back to London tonight, but I’ll try to come here before going for my train. And, please, I think that perhaps you shouldn’t say anything about my having called.” “Just as you wish,” the other remarked. “And now, I’m afraid I must leave you.”

Utterly dejected, Mary murmured something in reply to that, and going from the hospital, walked slowly in the direction of the railway station. Her head was lowered, and :it was not till she had almost bumped into them that she saw the man and woman who were approaching her. Then her head jerked up, and she found hex self looking into the face of the man she loved. Beside him, a hand on his arm, was Gladys Robinson. CHAPTER XXII. It was only one swift glance which Mary gave at the older woman’s face, but it told her part, at least, of what she had dreaded to learn. There was no doubting the reason for that light in the nurse’s eyes; no doubting the cause of that faint flush in the cheeks; no brushing aside the fact that her whole manner bespoke the presence of an interest in the man ! beside her stronger than mere friendj ship. She had met Mary’s eyes, but there Iliad been no interest in her own. Visitors were plentiful enough to Quarrenford just then, and this beautiful but sad-faced girl, who had almost blundered into Harvey Carruthers, must be one of them. Drawing the blind man aside a littie I she passed on, and Mary, with her I heart thudding wildly and her breath i coming over-fast, quickened her own j pace. When she had gone some fifty yards she dared to look round. Harvey and his companion were going up the hospital steps then, and she could tell that they were laughing together. The knowledge of that laughter was a blow under which Mary winced. So, for once, Arthur Welland had told the truth! She did not, so she

assured herself, need to question Nurse Robinson now. The latter’s face had told her story. Harvey, too. had seemed infinitely happier than when she, Mary, had last seen him. Arrived at the railway station, she scanned a time-table and learned from it that a London-bound train was due within a matter of minutes. There was another one an hour and a-half later, and another —the last of the day —an hour after that. Undecided as to whether or not she should catch the first train, Mary walked to and fro, debating with herself forlornly what she should do. She recalled some of those cynical suggestions which Welland had made to her; remembered how he had pointed out that, not for her sake but for Harvey’s, she should strive to set him legally free. Knowing him as she did, and remembering his views on marriage, she greatly doubted whether, even now, he would be prepared to take the steps that might eventually give him a divorce. It was more than probable that even though he .loved this nurse and was loved by her, he might say; ‘‘No. I married this other woman, and, marrying her, made certain vows which hold. It’s true that' she left me, but I took her for good or ill—and forever.” If he did so think and so speak, then, Mary communed, there would be only one way in which to help him to happiness—she must strive to convince him that she herself longed to have the legal bonds torn into worthless fragments. This meant doing what, for a long time now, she had dreaded to do; it meant meeting and speaking to Harvey.

Out of the welter of her thoughts that fact emerged with almost frightening clarity, and while she faced it, the train steamed fussily into the station and snorted to a standstill. Mary made no move to board it. On the contrary, she turned and passed slowly from the station. She would walk for a while, she told herself. Somehow, her mind seemed to work most clearly when her body "was active. There -was still time to call again at the hospital, and to discover where Harvey was staying. If it turned out that he had moved his quarters from Apple-Warley to Quarrenford, then him, too, she might interview before she left for London. In the hospital, meanwhile, Carruthers and Gladys Robinson were

sitting in the waiting-room, and talk- j ing cheerfully. “You're sure that I'm not keeping you from your work?” he asked. “It was good of you to bring me here, | and to arrange for me to see Mr. | Sefton, but I musn’t trade on your ; kindness.” “Now, didn’t I forbid you to talk like that?” she returned gaily. “Anything that I can do for you, I do, not for your sake, you know, but because ! helping you makes me happy. When you tola me to-day ".hat your eyes were hurting you, I was so glad that I couldn’t put the gladness into j words.” “Of course, I know practically no-, thing about eye-trouble, but I remembered that Mr. Sefton, who’s one of our directors, was down from town, and that he was one of the cleverest eye-specialists living.” “And he’s going to examine me?” j “Yes. I saw the matron about it, ' and she and Dr. Hardy spoke to Mr. Sefton. You see, Mr. Carruthers, you’re rather an important person j here. The donation that you gave to the funds almost staggered the directors, I think, and it isn’t likely that Mr. Sefton, who's one of the j keenest among them, would hesitate to do you a favour. “I’ll wait with you till he comes, j and after he's made his examination, we’ll know —well! we’ll know if there ! is anything to know!” Carruthers was shaking his head. “I guess what you’re thinking,” he i said, “but I daren’t let myself dream that I’ll never get my sight back.” “It would be cruel of me if I were j to suggest that you would,” the woman answered. “Still, if the eyes of a man who’s been blind for months , suddenly begin to hurt him, surely the j cause of that hurt should be searched , for?” “They told me in London,” he went | on, “that I need not hope. Well, I’ve j followed their advice. I have w r atched hope die in a dozen different ways.” I She touched his hand softly, and j that tired smile came to his lips. “Grumbling again, am I?” he said. ; “It is too bad of me, I know.” For some moments there was sil- j ence, then Carruthers broke in: “Sup-' posing,” he said, “just supposing, that I did get my sight back, even partially.” “Yes?” she asked eagerly “Why, then, when I found Mary, I would be able to see her face again. If I could do that, then I think that I would know the real truth.” The nurse’s lips tightened, and she had to beat back the harsh words which had grouped themselves to- j gether so swiftly in her brain. I “She must be very beautiful, this i straying wife of yours,” she suggested, i The adjective hurt him, but he let | it pass. | “I have never shown you her photoI graph,” he said, “but perhaps I should ! have done that. You have been worthy of every confidence, and ” I He broke off, and a hand went to ! an inner pocket of his jacket. | “You have get i". here?” she asked. (To be Continued.!