The Courage of Love

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 937, 2 April 1930, Page 5

The Courage of Love

rOPYRir.HT PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

by

MADAM AIBANESI

Author of “ Lov*’» Harvest,* •* The Road V> Love.” "The Way to Win,’-’ etc.. •*»

CHAPTER XXr. ‘•Well what do you propose that ■we should do, Mr. Townley,” queried Hugh Waverley eagerly. "It’s always the hardest thing to have to wait, my dear boy,” the other man answered, “but that is the best thing we can do at the moment. We have to wait. We have to wait and see what move is made on the other side. I can’t help thinking that they will make some sort of move.” "Do you think it would be a good thing to put this into the hands of a detective?” queried Mrs. Waverley. “No. As a matter of fact I understand from your friend, Mr. Joyce, that you have already got a very clever man, Dr. Bravington working for you. I should almost be inclined to leave things in his hands. I am not over fond of private detectives: one has to say so much more than one would naturally want to have to say in ordinary circumstances.” And then Gresham Townley discussed Mrs. Waverley’s news regarding the death of Agatha Thorp. “I am sorry not to have seen her,” be said. “I know a good deal about her from hearing James talk. There must have. been some good in her. “I have only spoken to her once, and that was on the day of Diana’s disappearance,” said Hugh Waverley. “And then she touched me because she spoke very gently, and most affectionately, and even proudly of my girl. And yet, of course, everybody knew all round Rexbury that Diana had had a very hard time with her aunt. She was kept almost like a prisoner, she had no freedom, and was always being scolded and punished for some wrong she had done. There is no doubt that the shock of her disappearance proved fatal with Mrs. Thorp.” “I am very sorry,” Hugh’s mother said, ‘ that I was not able to see her or to know her in the days before she was stricken with paralysis. Poor soul, whatever her faults were, she paid for them dearly!” In a little while, Hugh Waverley got up, and taking farewell of their guest, he went away. “He’s gone out to walk the streets," his mother said, with a sad smile. "One has to be patient with him, poor lad! It’s been such a dreadful business. You see, Hugh has never played about, and flirted, or run after girls, and therefore when he fell in love, it was a very serious, and a very real thing. And from all that I have been told about Diana, I imagine she was just the type of girl that would appeal to him. Poor little creature! I do wonder where she is, and how she is?” “We can’t let the matter rest, although I don’t want to have a detective,” Gresham Townley said. “But we must all try to unravel this mystery.” “Hugh seems to have done everything he could do,” Mrs. Waverley replied thoughtfully. “It is difficult, you see, to know where to start. 'lf only we had some clue as to what this man. who called himself by your name, was doing in London, or where he was living before he came to Middleston, that would be something to go upon. But we know nothing, we are all in the dark. * » * Two or three days went by, days that were spent very quietly by Mrs. Stanton and by Diana, that is to say, Quiet in a sense. The girl appeared to be strangely restless, she wanted to be out of doors walking. This old house was very near the river; they only had to go down a side street, and they came to a cluster of houses, beyond which stretched the Thames. The river seemed to fascinate Diana.

She was certainly getting stronger. She could walk quite easily now, and Mrs. Stanton was -able to induce her to eat fairly well. They generally had their food in the ' itchen, that was Diana’s wish. She irank from being alone; she confes 1 more than once that she could m bring herself to like this old, r:. her tumble-down house. And once she said, puzzling her brows into a frown: “It was very nice before we came here. I don’t know \yhere it was, but it was a nice house. There were some charming pictures on the walls. Why did we come away' from there?” she queried. When Diana asked questions in this direct fashion, it was very difficult for Mrs. Stanton to know exactly how to deal with her. Unknown to the girl, she was watching very carefully. There were times when really she was terribly anxious. It seemed to her that Diana was hovering on the bor r ders of full consciousness. She kept these things to herself very carefully because she did not want t.o draw attention to what was passing with Diana. It was impossible for anyone to have been kinder, or more tender, or more thoughtful, or more considerate than this working woman was. And now and again when they, were sitting alone together in the kitchen (which was the only cheerful place in this dreary old house), there would come into the heart of Miriam Stanton a feeling of tenderness, ai\d motherly love for this helpless young creature who had been put into her care, and who was, she knew now, so valuable to the men whom she had been taught to look upon as her masters.

The disappearance of Henry Burke assured the housekeeper that things were beginning to be less promising, but this did not bring her much peace of mind; she dreaded, indeed, to look ahead. There w'ere times when this woman cried out in her heart against the fate which bound her in servitude to such a man as the one who called himself Cyril Townley. She knew that her husband had been a man of indifferent morality. He had been undoubtedly a thief, and just as undoubtedly he had been a forger; but as her son had put before her pretty clearly, there really was nothing to indicate that she had had a share in his evil doings. She had- been a victim, and he had wrecked her life. And now to add to her restless desire for freedom there came a very definite feeling of rebellion. Why should she continue to serve these two men. The spirit that Edward Garrett had put in her remained and grew stronger. She began to ask herself questions. What would be her reward for the faithful way in which she had served Townley and Burke? They never troubled to waste any thanks for all the work she did, and as for making promises of what would come in the future, Miriam was convinced that if she' had spoken about that future, asking to know what she was to do when success came to them, she would only have been answered “with abuse. Lately, too, she told herself passionately she wanted no reward for the care and love she gave Diana. If only she could have known something about Diana she would * have dared Townley’s anger—would have

given the girl hack to those to whom j she belonged. She answered Diana’s last speech after some hesitation. > “Well, my dear, it’s only a furnished house,” she said hurriedly, “and, you see, it had only been taken for a short time.” - Diana said: "Oh.” But she still looked a little worried. “Do you like this house?” she queried in a low voice. Miriam Stanton shook her head. “No, my dear, I hate It. I used to live here years ago, and I had great unhappiness in this place. That’s why l hate it.” “Unhappiness!” said Diana. She looked at the woman, and then she stretched out her hand. “Oh, I am sorry,” she said. “You are so kind — you are so good—you take such care of me, I don’t like to think of you being unhappy.” Mrs. Stanton turned away, for tears rushed to her eyes. In a little while she made some light remark. But she continued to look anxiously at Diana. In every way she was worried. Though she had rung up her son at a number which he had given her as being a number where she could usually flud him, she had never got in touch with him. And the absence of Townley, following on the disappearance of Burke, made her very anxious. Not that she really wanted to see the man, only that life had to go on, and she had no means with which to buy food, or to do anything. If it had not been for Garrett, who came every day, and always brought her a little sum of money which he told her he had borrowed, Mrs. Stanton would not have been able to supply Diana with the food which she knew was so necessary to the girl. And then one late afternoon, it was dark, the year was getting on and the . days were growing shorter, Townley | arrived. He was not violent this time, | but his manner was much more dan- j gerous. His eyes-had a strange ex- i pression in them, ahd he looked worn as if he had been travelling for some days. When he asked for Diana, Mrs. | Stanton hurriedly explained that the I girl was not very well. “She’s got a very heavy cold,” she . said, “and I am keeping her upstairs.” j “Well, cold, or no cold,” said Town- J ley, “she’ll have to come down when I want her. Have you seen Burke?” he queried. “He was here a few nights ago,” said Miriam Stanton, “but he hasn’t come back.”

“He’s a yellow dog,” said the other man savagely. “Thinks he’s got away from me, does he? Well! I’ll teach him differently. Now look here, Miriam! I am expecting two people, one’s your son, Francis, 1 don’t think this time he will fail to turn up, and the other is a man you used to know in the old d9ys—Bill Austin.” Mrs. Stanton’s colour faded out, and she set her shoulders stiffly as If she had had a shock. “Austin!” she said. “I thought . . .” “Yes, I know what you thought,” said the other man roughly. “Well, he’s out again! And I can tell you he’s not in too nice a mood. He’s got it in for you, Miriam! Swears it was you who got him put away.” “He’s telling lies, and you know it. Bill had no one but himself to thank for being caught. What do you want with him? What’s he coming here for?” “That’s no business of yours. And look here! I’m not Townley any more, do you understand? I have gone back to my old name, Belly, ‘One Man Pelly.’ ” “I know,” said Miriam Stanton. “Well, Townley, or One Man Pelly, or whatever you like to call yourself, I want you to know that I am getting thoroughly tired out with this business. I don’t need you nor anyone else to tell me that I’ve been a blind fool! You threatened me, and you frightened me, and you took means to force me to do your will because of my boy, but I can pretty well guess you won’t put the cop on to me because you don’t stand too clear yourself.” “That’ll do,” said the man Pelly roughly. “Go back to the kitchen. I’ve some writing to do. And let me tell you this, my good Miriam Stanton, that if your son doesn’t turn up tonight, well, he’ll get such a thrashing when I see him that he

won’t care to stand up for a few days I at least!” I “You shan’t put a finger on him, Pelly, do you hear?” said the woman. “You shan’t put a finger on the boy! i You’ve done enough harm to him al- \ ready’ And if he doesn’t go through * with this business that you want hin,# to do, well, that’s because he’s grit a glimmer of something decent aAd honourable in him. He doesn’t to trick that girl upstairs!” “Oh, he doesn’t, does he?” sail/ the big man. His face worked convulsively for a second or two, an.cf then he laughed a disagreeable laugh. “Well, now we know where ve are!” he said. “But I repeat to y#ou, whatever you’ve got in your njSnd, if he don’t go through with what I’ve told him he’s got to do, well! I’ll break every bone in his body! Is that clear?” “Very clear,” said Mariam Stanton, anjd she turned and went back to the kitchen. She was trembling in every limb, and the blood was rushing about her heart. The mere suggestion that her son should be bodily hurt, roused in this woman a f.ury which gave her an immense amc/nnt of strength and courage. Perhaps something of a feeling of uneasiness ejame over the mind of the man whom 'she left behind her. He looked aftefc* her with a scowl, and he sat down and lit a cigar. But after a while he threw it aside; he was not in u. mood to enjoy his smoking. The facst that Burke had disappeared, though, he had sneered at this in I Flies, mosquitoes and other insect j pe\its cannot escape Flytox. Kills them qvackly and surely.—4.

I sneaking to Miriam Stanton, upset l him. j Burke was like a rat; he had an I Instinct when to leave a sinking ship. | And though there had been times in t the recent few weeks, particularly, ' when the man who had abducted Diana Ladbroke had told himself angrily that the best thing that could happen to him would be to get. rid of Henry Burke, now that the other man had gone he had a feeling of i uneasiness and nervousness upon | him. i He let his anger possess him as he i waited in that room for Francis Stan- | ton to come. His temper was not 1 improved when the door opened and • Garrett, the former chauffeur, stood j in the doorway. “What are you doing here? How | j dare you come in this house! Get; I out!” he shouted. j But Garrett only laughed and snapped his fingers. “I am here until I get my money,” he said. “I owe you no money,” the other man answered. “Well, two can play at that game, Pelly! And I have come here not onlv to ask you to give me the money that you owe me, but to tell you that if c there is any way that I can hound ; you down, and do you a bad turn, I’m ; out to do it! Got that, my good ‘One ' Man Pelly?’ ” The veins stood out on the brow of ; the man who had now reverted to his proper name. He advanced on the ■ chauffeur in a threatening way. “I thrashed you a little while ago,” j he said. “Easy stuff! And I'm going; to do it again ” | “Are you?” said Garrett, and as he: j spoke he whipped out of his pocket j

an automatic. “There will be no | more fist work. You put hands on ■ me again, Pelly, and you won’t live to see another day! Come along, let me have my money. You’d best do It,” Garrett added in an ugly tone, “because if you don’t, when I Jeave here I shall go straight to the police station and give information about you, and let the law find out what is going on here, and why you have got : that girl upstairs. Don’t forget it. was i me as drove you from that town and me as saw the accident what knocked her out!” Pelly stood very still. He said many terrible things to the man, but the sight of that little weapon held steadily in the hand of Garrett sent j a thrill of fear through him. Out in the 'West he had used such weapons without any care as to who suffered, but he was not going to be wiped out just at the moment when he was going to have his triumph, not he. Then, after a pause, he turned round, walked back to the table, and then he took out bis pocket book. . It had been pretty thin the last week or two, but now it was filled with : notes, a fact which Garrett quickly : grasped. He counted out a certain number of these notes, and flung them i across the table to the chauffeur, who | advanced and picked them up, still holding the automatic in his hand. “One short,” he said, when he I counted them through. The other man flicked the note to-' ward him, and then said roughly: “Now get out, and be quick about it! i And let me tell you this, Garrett, you i j open your mouth, and you say one j j word about what you know, or what’s

been going on here, and it will be you who won’t see another day dawn.” ] Then a leer came over Pelly’s face. “I’m wise to what’s going on in your ' mind, my dear man,” he said. “You’re soft about Miriam! Well, once let me realise that you are trying to do me in any way, and she’ll pay, if you , don’t.” But Garrett only laughed; he slipped the weapon back into his inner pocket, j and waving his hand passed out of the door, and closed it behind him. When he got back into the kitchen, he pushed all but a note or two into the \ hand of the housekeeper. “There you are, my dear, now carry i on!” Mrs. Stanton was white-faced and trembling. “Garrett,” she said, “I have a presentiment that things are going ! to be very bad for my boy. He won’t ! be here tonight although Pelly expects him.” “Keep cool, Miriam!” the exchauffeur said. “Look hc**e, I’ve got a pal waiting a little way off. He’s got a nice little two-seater; I’ll get him to take me down to West End, and I’ll see if I can get in touch with Francis.” Miriam clung to the man. “Oh, do beg him to be careful. 1 don’t care what happens to me, but | Francis is all I’ve got. Since this girl has come into my life, I have had’ gleams of happiness which I have never had since Francis was a little boy, but she will never belong to me; 1 she’ll go back sooner or later to where she came from. But Frankie! I’d go myself to try to find him, but I can’t . leave her. She clings to me, and she needs me. I am as much afraid for her as I am for my boy!”

“I don't think you need be afraid for her,” said Garrett, cheerfully, "for after all she is the most Important person in the world for Pelly.” “Yes, but she is changing,” said Miriam Stanton in a broken voice. “She isn’t sleeping like she was. I can see things moving in her mind. She doesn’t understand why we have brought her here —she doesn't like this place. She is still very helpless, but I tremble when I think what would happen if she was to stand up to Pelly and refuse to be ordered about by him.” (To be continued tomorrow)