The HALF-CLOSED DOOR

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 708, 6 July 1929, Page 6

The HALF-CLOSED DOOR

By

J.B.Harris-Burland

CHAPTER XII (Continued)

“Women are like that, dear,” she replied. “But in your ease—well, there is cause for unhappiness. You have lived all your life in a comfortable home, and now—well, you have to rough it, haven’t you?”

Mary' did not answer. She clasped her hands on her knees and kept her eyes on her mother’s face.

"I never approved of this marriage,” said Mrs. Dearden. “And I'm afraid I was right. Mary dear, can’t you tell me the truth? You have found out that Dick —well, that we were right about Dick?”

“No!” Mary Pelling answered decisively. “I have found out nothing against Dick. There is nothing against him. I’m just a rotten little fool. If I’d married a duke I’d have been just the same. I’d have seen ghosts in his castle.” She rose from her chair. "You’re not going, darling, are you?” said Mrs. Dearden. “Yes—l think so. Mother, I can’t have you talking or thinking like this about Dick. He's just the best possible husband in the world. And he’s going to make good, mind you—from your point of view, I mean. He’s going to be rich.” "Don’t go, darling.”

"I must, mother. Dick likes me to be home when he returns. Goodbye, dearest.” They kissed each other —the mother and daughter whose lives had been bound so closely together for so many years. "My dear little Mary,” said Mrs. Dearden. “You will come to me, won’t you, if there is any real trouble.”

“Yes, mother dear. But there is no real trouble. I ought to be ever so happy, and I shall be as cheerful as a lark.”

Mary left the house, and made her way back by the motor bus to Gletton Street. The little sitting room seemed very mean and shabby, but Mary was proud of it. It was her

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home, and love made it beautiful for her. She would not have exchanged it for a palace, where there was no love.

She went into the bedroom, took off her hat, and lay down on the bed. She was very tired. The heat was intense. Through the wide open window came a continued assault of noise—a mixture of unpleasant sounds—-the rattle of dishes and cans, the harsh voices of women talking to each other over the walls that separated the gardens, the barking of a dog, chained up in a back yard. But she was used to this clamour, and she fell asleep. And when she woke, she saw her husband standing by the window. He had come in so quietly that he had not roused her. He must have thought that she was still asleep, for he was staring out of the window, staring at something with terrible hatred in his eyes. His face was white and his lips were pressed tightly together. She had never seen him like this before, and she realised that she would not have seen him like this now, if he had not believed her to be asleep. "Dick,” she said suddenly, “What is the matter, Dick?” Richard Pelling turned and smiled at his wife. “Nothing, dear,” he said. Then he came to her side, leant down and kissed her.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he continued. "You looked so tired. By jove, it has been a hot day, hasn’t it? I feel limp enough.” “But, Dick, dear, what were you looking at—out there in the garden?” “Our good landlady, hanging out the clothes to dry.” “But what were you thinking of, Dick?”

“You, my child. I was wondering whether I ought to wake you up or let you sleep.” “You frightened me,” she whispered, and then burst into tears.

“Oh, Mary dear, don’t be silly,” he said, rather impatiently. “I woke up and saw you standing there,” she sobbed, “and you—you looked so queer, Dick—as if something terrible had happened.”

THE FAINT, SWEET SCENT OF LAVENDER! It is seldom that we trouble to think seriously of the important part played by the olfactory nerves in the daily routine of life, yet our senses are thrilled, repulsed, comforted, o soothed by the things we smell as wel. as by those we see. Some people have an intense dislike for artificial perfumes of any sort, but I never met anyone who expressed disapproval of the scent of flowers; and I have heard hundreds of people say how much they like the smell of log fires, the scent of green grass and earth after asliower of rain, the aroma i of hot toast on coming home tired and ! hungry after a long tramp! All these things appeal to the i senses and produce a feeling of wellj being, just as a faint scent of laven- ! del - will instantly conjure up the : vision of a country house and the weil-cared-for linen cupboard of a dainty woman. The odour of damp tweeds and leather brings instantly to mind the picture of a manly man on the open moors, and the fragrance of tobacco. I fancy it is the abuse of perfume that makes it unpopular with some people. Often women have no sense of proportion and “lay it on with a trowel” so to speak, so that the atmosphere becomes permeated with a sickly, overpowering smell that nauseates sensitive folk. Every dainty lady, like a flower, should select and be faithful to her own individual perfume. Just a suspicion of it—no more! In the years to come, who knows what memories may be conjured up by just that particular fragrance. I once knew a girl, dainty and sweet, who used just enough Rhine violet scent to make people think that a bunch of fresh violets had been brought into the room. She kept little sachets of the same scent among her clothes, and put just one drop on her hair after washing it. The remembrance lasted, for, though she | has Been dead many years, a chance j fragrance of Rhine violets the other day brought the stinging tears to my eyes. Eastern exotic scents have their devotees, but for the ordinary everyday woman the scent of one distinctive I flower should be enough. They say j that the very newest scent resembles leather. I have never sampled it, but I cannot imagine any woman desiring to exude an odour akin to a wellfilled library, especially when wearing an evening gown in a flower-filled room! Scent should be chosen to suit the temperament of the person using it, and a temperamental atmosphere is | created that is almost a permanent j personality. H.E. 1 It stands to reason that the investor j in verandah upholstery of any kind j should consider only sunfast materials, j These come now in so many varieties that one suffers no limitations from adhering to this sunfast rule. Imported prints, chintzes, linens and striped and plaided cottons —one could name a host of others—all come in colours guaranteed not to fade.

“Oh, you’ve been dreaming, Mary, and then you woke up and didn’t expect to see a man standing by the window. I daresay you didn't recognise me at first.” “I didn’t, Dick. I’ve never seen you look like that before. You looked as if—as if you could kill someone.”

“Our good landlady, perhaps,” he laughed. “She doesn’t look her best on washing day. Has it ever struck you, Mary, how .extraordinarily ugly she is?”

He put his arms round her, lifted her from the bed and set her on her feet. Then he took her face between his two hands. “Don’t be a silly child.” he said, with a smile. “All our trouble is to make two ends meet. We’ve nothing else, and you mustn’t imagine things. Now what about food?” She kissed him and went into the sitting-room. He had done his best to laugh her fears away, but she was quite aware of a crisis in her life. Her fears, hitherto vague and possibly quite imaginary, had taken a more definite form. Her husband, the man she loved, was afraid of someone—of something. She had seen the fear in his eyes. And she had seen more than that. She had seen the desire to fight and kill the thing he feared. He was no coward. Whatever it was that threatened him, he would stand up against it. He would conquer, or be conquered. There would be no compromise.

But fche ugly side of the whole business was that he would not allow her to help him—that he would tell her nothing. He wanted to keep her apart from this battle —to spare her the shock of the conflict. As she prepared the supper, her mind went back into the past! She knew now that her mother had been right. There was something about her husband that he had hidden from her—something that threatened him with danger. And it was creeping closer to him—so close that he would have to destroy it or be destroyed. And she could do nothing. She could not even watch the battle. She could only see the rocking of the surface while the fight went on below. The enemy was hidden from her in the depths. And her husband meant that it should be so. He would not yield an inch to her pleading or to her tears. He intended to “keep her out of it.”

Richard Pelling, left to himself in the bedroom, took a letter from his pocket, and read it through for the fourth time. It was well written, and clearly expressed. It gave nothing away, but left no doubt as to the intention of the writer. Richard Pelling had either to hand over certain valuable property that he did not possess, or he would have to face the consequences. There was no signature to the letter, but he knew well enough that it had been written by Peter Woolf. Sam Felton would have expressed himself differently and Jim Leader would have been quite unable to write such a letter at all. Susan Croad was his friend.

It was to Susan Croad . that his ' thoughts turned, directly he received j the letter. She was a good sort, and j she had power over the rest of the j gang. She would not permit this sort j of thing. It was characteristic of the man that 1 he never gave a thought to the weapon he held iu his own hand—the weapon with which he could strike at Susan Croad. It would never have occurred to him to injure or even to threaten injury to a woman who had been kind J to him, in order to compel her to pro- ; tect him. It would not, of course, j have been very easy to prove that j Susan had any connection with the others. But it would have been pos- j sible. And some men would not have | hesitated to make use of their know- j ledge under the circumstances. But j Richard Felling was not one of those j men. If Susan Croad could keep the i hands of these men from his throat, she would do so. And if she no longer had her old power over others- —well, he could not punish her for that. i He folded up the letter and placed it in his pocket agaiu. He even smiled i at the stupidity of the men who j thought that he had stolen the dia- ! monds from the safe. As yet, he had no plan of action, but at any rate it ! Was comforting to think that he had j to deal with a pack of fools. “If it "were not for Mary,” lie ! thought, “I’d come out into the open j and fight them.” But he could not do that. He had j already gone very near to the be- ! trayal of his secret. What a fool he ! had been stand at the bedroom win- ! dow, and stare at nothing in that j idiotic fashion—for all the world as though he had been an actor soliloquising on the stage. There must he j no more of that sort of thing. It j would take days, perhaps weeks, to j get that picture of himself out of his ■ wife’s brain. Her nerves must have j already been set on edge, or she -would ! not have made such a fuss about the j matter.

He might have to tell her everything, after all. He ought to have told her everything before he married her. It would be much harder now. He would be in the position of a man who has obtained goods—the most valuable goods in the world—under false pretences.

That same evening Detective-In-spector Sanderson came in to smoke a pipe and talk over old times. It was Pelling himself who turned the conversation to the burglary in Colchester Buildings. He learnt nothing except that the police had a clue, and that Trillick was not likely to recover his memory. “The police always have a clue,” said Pelling with a laugh. “It is a stock phrase, isn’t it?” Sanderson was not to he drawn. Detectives do not discuss their business with laymen, even if they are - friends. At ten o’clock Mary went to bed, and a few minutes later Pelling said, : “Have you ever had a blackmailing , case, Sanderson?” "Oh, yes, sir—two or three.” “Difficult jobs to tackle, are they not?” (To be Continued)