Without Asking

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 720, 20 July 1929, Page 28

Without Asking

COMPLETE SHORT STORY

By

"SKIPPER" in "The Australasian")

MARSCHEL BARANDON glanced at l his speedometer and frowned lightly. "Slow through Gerston," a iign requested him. and in compliance 8 allowed the tell-tale contrivance to QO.

To a. man who uas been subjected For many weary months to the stuny atmosphere of smfiiest India, England's pure air on a bright summer morning becomes something of an inloxicant. and on a man whose only little daughter means all the world ‘.O him, the prospect of seeing her after so long has the same effect.

Hence the breathless progress roastward of the Panhard-Levassor as Gerston have in sight. and after Gerston was passed. Barandon and small. mother-less Linette. aged eight years, had found the parting difficult; reunion was as difficult to’wait [or—especially now, when only a couple of hours of waiting remained. Mentally Marschel saw the schoola little. fuzzy-haired, long-legged girl in. a blue tunic, with large, shining grey eyes and a wide smile—he felt her crushed in his arms, her tight clasp round his neck, and he sighed impatiently.

Forty—forty-five—and from beneath the dashboard the beat of the hardworking engine penetrated in waves; hedges flew by, an occasional insect hurled itself with a swipe against the screen. Insignificant, white, fluffy clouds were scattered and daubed across the limpid expanse of blue above; trees gently stirred by :1 fitml breeze shed dainty fragments of dwindling blossom on his sleeves as they swished by, at intervals the exhilarating scent of pinewood. the drowsy fragrance of burnt bracket)— the bleat of a sheep. a start from a group or lazy, ruminating cows—certainly the world was a good place to be in on such a morning as this, with so much happiness to look forward to and so much useful but troublesome labour over and done with.

Barandon was deep in thought. but instinctively be slowed down as he pwent by a yellow A.A. sign. Ridgemere! Another 15 miles.

The village passed. the big tourer rounded a corner. and he was about to let. her out again, but the path was not clear.

Flanking the road on the right was 'a great spiked iron gate, set between two splendid holly hedges, and opening into a. broad gravel drive. Opposite stood a. row or pretty cottages. and by the side of the road, before mm of these, a child—baby of perhaps three and whalf, was playing with a large coloured ball. The tall gate was dangerously hidden—Barandon sounded a. long, sonorous warning.

As he did so the child's bail rolled into the road, and without the least hesitation the baby ran out. after it. He was almost upon the mite, another yard and—-

Setting his teeth, he tugged his wheel to the right.

The long car swerved—«vim an unEuerving shuddering shock and. a screech of brakes, skidded round, and ‘just at that. instant, from the iron .gate at the right, a small boy darted iforward, was struck squarely, and [flung down, and as the heavy auto;mobile partly climbed a neat green ibank at the foot of the holly hedge, ‘.the boy's young body was hidden 1 from view.

At such moment the eye sees, but does not note all details clearly. Barandon only knew that he had missed the baby and killed another child in so doing. He did not doubt—he came at once to the awful conclusion. He never noticed that behind the boy ayoung and very strikingly handsome lady had emerged from the spiked gate, but stood mesmerised with horror, a fearful pallor spreading over her face. He was only convinced that a cry—— evidently hers—that long, agonised cry of despair and dread, would sound in his ears for ever. Next moment he had thrown him‘ self. out of the listing car and had dragged the limp figure from beneath it.

At that she moved. Two swift paces and she was be side him. and had snatchu! u . hm. den away.

Her white lips moved. but, at firs! no words would come. At. last——

“How dare you touch lzlmi” she ejaculated hoarsely. “Don’t come near me—don’t set foot on an inch of my property,” adding in a low, fierce whisper, “murderer!” People had gathered around; two had actually witnessed the accident, one from a. window, another from the road behind Bal'audon, and at this juncture a. murmur arose, of pity, for both.

Always afterwards he remembered her in that attitude, standing in the brilliant sunshine, a lovely tigress at bay, hugging to her heart the in—sensible body of her little darlehaired son of, maybe seven, and with stony, glittering eyes and unseady lips denouncing’ him, the stranger, giving him no chance to utter a word in selfdefence. Had she but been in a fit state to observe his distress, his mute grief at the realisation of what he had done, when. thanks to the incomprehensible mentality of a. mother who allowed a baby to play alone on a public highway, and owing to the plucky impulse of a young boy to save a tiny playmate,

the must now have this unbearable weight on his conscience for all time: ‘when the joy of that coming meeting at Linette's school was to be, not only :postponed, but overshadowed utterly gby the thought of the tragedy he had icaused. But there came a day, months \later, as ét seemed to him, when Gilda fClyde faced him and was able to Espeak the rem‘oaches that were pent lup in her broken heart. ; She had been a widow, he gathered, gsince the second year of the boy’s life t—to all appearances she was abso{lutely alone in the world. All her zwealth could not buy back that son :she had lost, could not cause a penalty lshe deemed adequate to be inflicted Fupon the man who had killed him.

“You have taken from me all that made life worth living,” she said in a tone vibrating with bitterness, “the only reward I ever had for i'elinquishv ing my freedom. the only love I have ever had from one of your sex! You were doing 40 within the 15—mile limit, and I hope and trust you will be. punished for it some (lay in a manner the law cannot accomplish!” It was not true, as, fortunately for him, witnesses had testified, but possibly she believed it to be so, and he felt the entire impossibility at such a time of arguing or making excuses.

So a year passed that hardly dimmed or softened the painful memory of that never-tobe forgotten scene. For several months Barandon recoiled at the touch of a steeringwheel; he got rid of the hateful Pan-har-Levassor, and it was long before he drove again. It. with the aid of a clean record and the aforementioned testimony of lionest outsiders, the law had forgiven him, he knew that there existed for him somewhere a hate so boundless and deadly as must surely bring a sequel to that first act in the drama some day. It may have been that the matter preyed on his mind, that a vision of her haunted him in his imagination, but twice certainly he was positive that she drove past his home in a wine-coloured two~seater; once he saw her as he thought from an upper window, slip slowly by, studying the house as she went. and again, just after he had purchased a new car, which stood drawn up before the gate, and which she viewed with even deeper interest. Linette being new at School abroad, in pursuit of an earnest and intelligent rlesire to become a linguist, he had formed the habit of spending lonely weekends at his Thames bungalow. Here he passed his solitary hours fishing in silent picturesque spots, where the water was glassy save when an occasional majestic swan ruffled the surface in his wake, and all was peace~ ful except for the gurgle and patter of those ripples against the punt's flat

side, or the plop of a brilliant kingfisher diving for food Peaceful, yes—and Barandon fished for rest and peace of mind. and somehow missed attaining his purpose.

L He would drive, down on Saturday ’evening and return on the Monday ,morning, and he began to remark that {every weekend journey became a istage of descent into utter depression. iHe bore the devastating sensation with stem outward composure, but !within he was strangely afraid. ; \V‘as this hopeless feeling the 3state preliminary to the madness ithat leads men to do stupid things? gHe trusted he had more will ipower. No, it was Linette whom he !needed, her love and company—after iall he was human. Soon, when she ghad holidays—

Then came another Saturday night, a. particularly fine one in early autumn, and as usual Barandon was well on his way to the river. In fact, his destination was all but reached, when on one ill-kept and rather unfrequeuted road, which led to the towing path and also joined the main road to Marlow, he came upon a car—winered——drawn up beside the way. and by it a woman Whom he knew.

She put up a hand, trcygton him and hurried forward.

“Oh, would you mind giving me a lift?" she began, as she ran up, then paused with a jerk, and remained staring speechless. She had recognised him at once. and he was chilled by the expression that came into her fine eyes as she surveyed him. “Is there anything I can do?" he suggested. “No,” she rejoined immediately, “not you!” “But,” he objected, “you wereebout to ask me for help. Is there anything wrong?” “Something is very wrong,” she re~ torted harshly, “—an urgent message for me to come at once to my mother who is dying at Marlow and my car breaks down—badly—. But I Wish for nothing from you.” The world of bit ing scorn with which she spoke left him weirdly breathless. “Let me examine the car—if you will not accept a lift—3‘ } “No, thank you,” she stopped him‘ coldly, “I know plenty about motors and I’ve had this trouble before, I am aware of just how long it will take me to put right. I can only hope that another car will come this way." “You may have to wait hours, Mrs. Clyde,” he said firmly. "Come, will you not give a miserable enemy a chance to serve you even once?" =“l‘d rather be for ever reproaching} myself that I did not answer my dying| mother’s call than accept any servicel from you,” she declared with a convincing depth of passion; “and, besides, do you suppose I would step into your car to be driven by you?” She glanced hastily up and down the road, but no vehicle was in sight. “This is 3. Hudson,” he muttered, “the other “'3s—” - _ ‘

"I know,” she interrupted, her voice trembling now, “and what difference does it make—with you driving?” “Oh, but you are cruel!” came a protest from him then. that was not to be suppressed. "Have you ever done me the justice of recalling how a damned fate merely employed me as its helpless tool that day? The thing might have happened to you . . . You accused me then of doing 40-. It was false. It was in an efiort on the part of your brave boy and my unhappy self to save that baby, that it all came about—and—-I have suffered ——~and never forgotten!” Every shade of expression in his tones betrayed as much. but after a short spell, she laughed contemptuously. and shrugged her shoulders. ”VVhat do you know of a mother’s emotion?” she taunted. He said nothing, but she consulted her watch and as he laid a hand on his gear-lever, she continued, abruptly and with manifest reluctance. “It you agree to let me drive myself I‘ll accept your offer. I’ve no mind to trust myself in your callous hands!” Without a word he opened the door and shifted, making room for her hetore the wheel, and leaving her car standing there, they started. It was a strange ride—strange and unforgettable. Once he threw a sidelong look in her direction and then he saw a glint beneath her lashes that baffled him absolutely.

They were on the main road, en» countering regular traflic at intervals. Also they were “doing 40” with Gilda Clyde eyeing her watch. Whether she was trying to give an imitation of the kind of driver she imagined him to he 01‘ not, he could not decide, but had he valued his own life in the very least, his hair might well have risen upon his head. As it was he remained motionless as a statue, and the power‘ [ul Hudson flew through the night. They had several narrow escapes and presently—Marschel never quite grasped What happened—hut something did. They Were travelling behind a coupe on a very awkward part of the road, and had just caught up: Gilda' drew out to the right to overtake. but a motorcycle came flashing by and for a second they moved in again some yards ahead by that time. Headlights flashed before them. Barandon gazed at his companion. She was clenching her teeth, and her face was as white as chalk; evidently she was determined not to give way any more.

A large, rumbling, heavy lorry com—ing for them, the coupe alongside, and —Gilda. put on speed. It appeared to Barandon that the squak of the lorry’s horn lasted minutes on end. that the headlights grew into leaping flames. He heard a tremendous tearing sound. and simultaneously there came such a violent jar—ring upheaval, as human beings are but seldom called upon to experience. Then pain. After that he knew nothing for many weeks. C 0 2!: fi

Cognisance came by degrees, primarily, in distorted, agonising snatches. when misty figures moved about and darkness always reigned. and lastly, in a calm, exhausted kind of dream into which the sun filtered once more. Then he saw and knew Linette. “They had to send for me," she explained. “They never thought you would recover. Oh, daddy!” He was informed that he had been beneath this roof seven weeks. “Great Scott!" he commented in mild surprise. appending in strained accents—“ Mrs. Clyde—Was she hurt?”

The nurse replied: “.\'o-——tlle collision was on your side —and it seems you were ill already; the shock just precipitated matters.” “You were struck by an iron girder from the lorry. which came right through the roof of the car.” Linette also volunteered. “'hen Gilda came he was amazed. They had told him that she had escaped injury, yet she looked as

thought she had been through worse than he. Other things puzzled him. Someone had mentioned that she had been by him whenever she found it possible, watching him, hanging upon the lips of those who pronounced verdicts, dumb and transfigured with fear, and he had smiled. “I a mgratetul to God!" she said when they were alone. and covered her face. . He was too dumbfounded to make any remark at first. Finally: “Your mother?" he inquired tormally, “did you reach her in time?" Her eyes met his, and what he saw caused him to draw a deep breath. He detected in her glance, earnest appeal—infinite suffering. “My mother died,” she admited, “when I was a child of six.” Barandon felt no doubt that he was having a relapse. \Vith fingers pressed to his temples he contemplated her in silence. “I had no object in view when l tool; the wheel of your car but to drive you to your death,” she said. For months I have been planning revenge —planning that . . .”

“Because I killed your son~l see. But What of your own risk?” She laughed, and it was one of the saddest things he had ever heard. It filled him with the most immense pity, and another immense emotion. “My risk? Do you suppose it counted? I lived only for that ven~ geance. Do you think life Was worth anything to me, an empty life, with all I had to live (or lost?” She halted a second and suddenly, taking his hand, she sank to her knees. "I lived only for revenge on you for what you did to me, and I did not care What I paid to get it. But when I saw you lying there bleeding, helpless. dying perhaps, according to my deliberate scheme, your words of de—fence came back to me, and for the first time I believed—and bitterly, bit~ terly repented,” she concluded almost inaudibly. Marschel Barandon felt acutelyl just then the horrible weakness that} threatened his self-control. ‘ “You mean you have forgiven?" ‘ She clung to the long, thin, unsteady hand, and a stifled sound was the an-l SWPI'. ‘ He ventured a question at last. 1 “How did you know that night just Where I should ’be. and when?" 1 She rose stitfly to her feet. and WIUI‘ her back to him satisfied his curiosity.| “For nearly a year I have had your shadowed; a hired detective found} out more than that for me." “Then you know nothing more against me that counts. Do you think‘ that you could ever bring yourself to‘ let me fill a humble place in a cornerl of your life, and make it less empty?” She turned back and was all at once young again. “A large place.” she corrected. “You have already done it Without asking —without knowing.”