Love Set Free

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1040, 2 August 1930, Page 23

Love Set Free

COPYRIGHT

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

By

L. C. MOBERLY

Author of ‘Q—niliac fire*/’ "In Apple Blosstnn Time,'’ “Threads of Ufe,*’ etc.

CHAPTER I. (Continued.) Men aud women were jammed in the narrow ways; little cries rose upon the stiAing, smoke-laden air; more than one shrill scream added fresh terror to the scene. Men strode over the backs of the seats, some alone, some dragging their womenfolk after them; women without male escort fought desperately to force a path to safety; white-faced girls and boys, with horror in their eyes elbowed out of the way those older and weaker than themselves. Every humane Impulse was over-ridden by the mastering urge of self-preservation. Only that one woman in the very centre of the front row stood still, her hands resting upon the ledge in front of her, where her opera glasses still remained, her lips set in a straight, tense line. Every moment the atmosphere grew closer and more smoke-laden; every moment the heat was more stifling; and now there came ominous sounds of crackling wood, mingled with the cries and shouts that made a babel on every side. While she stood there so quietly, the one still figure in the heaving tumult, a man touched her shoulder, and she turned quickly. He was stepping down from the row of seats behind her, a man whose face was suddenly illuminated by a red glare, which all at once glowed from the opposite corner of the house. Judith Merivale, standing there so frect and still, found herself looking »to clean-shaven, strongly-marked features; and in that bewildering moment of horror she realised that the eyes which met hers held some strangely quieting quality, serenity which was in some inexplicable fashion untouched by the pandemonium around them. “Come,” he said, his hand pressing her shoulder lightly. "I think I can Set you out.” He was beside her now, in the row from which ail those so lately seated there had fled, and In spite of the aoething mass of people struggling toward the exits, Judith had au odd sensation of being completely alone the burning theatre with this stranger who had come to her help. “Why should you bother about me?” she said, as he took her hand and drew her qujckly along the circle, shouting the words into his ears bemuse of the welter of sounds about them. "X saw you were alone,” he uaswered. “I was a few rows behind. * saw that you did not panic with the rest.” "What is the use of panicking?” she said, looking at the tossing sea of human beings wrestling with one another, treading upon one another, hgbting like creatures of the wild to hod a way out. She shuddered. “But how,” she began, as they came to the jod of the row, “how can you possibly help me?” "There is au emergency exit here,” ™ said. “I tried to force some of the crowd back toward it, but they Jhould not listen. They fought me Oke demons; then I caught sight of Jou.” Speech was becoming difficult as th® grey wreaths of smoke thickened, *od choked them, and Judith suddenly fobbed at his arm with a gasp- “ Look! Oh, look!” she said. His glance followed hers to a spot to the V*ht of the stage, where all at once ,!j er ® shot out a hungry flame of Are hat seized upon everything within “.reach with devouring fury. Come.” The man's voice, still steady and quiet, urged her on. They were in a corridor now and this time the roar of the flames as in their ears; the acrid, choking

smoke Ailed eyes and nostrils; the tumult of the panic-stricken multitude in the foyer round the next bend of the passage seemed to Judith like the awful tumult of lost souls in hell. What happened next she could afterward clearly determine. The overwhelming heat; the terrible roar of the fire behind them, the shrieking, clamorous people in front; the choking fumes; all these combined to deaden her senses. She was only dimly aware of a crash of glass someiwhere high in the wall on her right—of a rush of fresh air; then of that quiet voice in her ears: “Try to pull yourself together and realise what I want you to do. There i 3 a fire escape outside that window. The firemen are there to heip you. I will lift you up.” His words came gaspingly, for, in spite of the open window, the smoke was rolling round them in thicker and thicker masses. “But you,” she panted out, “you—are—coming—too ?” “I shall come.” His voice was quiet still, but it seemed to her fainter, as with almost a superhuman effort, he lifted her in his arms toward the open window. Consciousness was fast slipping from her, but she was dimly aware ol a face surmounted by a brass helmet; of a voice that said something quickly and cheerily; of a sudden blaze of light behind her in the theatre; of confused, dreadful shrieking, then blackness, darkness, obli vion. The man who presently staggered through a small door leading into an alley was blackened by smoke. His clothes and hair were singed. As he moved along the pavement, lie swayed as though he were drunk or very ill. The alley was deserted, lit only by the lurid glare that shone from the burning building. Not a living son! was visible along its length, and the shouts and cries that penetrated to it from the front of the theatre were muffled by the roar of the Aames as they shot upward toward the grey sky. The man put out a groping hand and clutched at the wall for support. He realised dimly that It was merely a blank wall, but found comfort in the contact of the solid stone. The ghastly scenes from which he had just escaped made a nightmare of horror in his brain. More than once he stumbled barely saving himself from falling. Only one though stood out clearly from the jumbled horror in his brain. No one alive had been left in that building that was now a raging, roaring furnace. He had done all that was possible before he suddenly found that little door opening into the alley way. Where did the alley lead? So his" confused thoughts ran on. The town was strange to him. He was there merely because he had been obliged to come on business, aud no was staying at an hotel. He supposed the alley must lead eventually into some main street, and then he would stumble his way back to the hotel, and thankfully creep into bed. Only his heart felt so queer, and his legs seemed incapable of carrying him any further —and he was not sure, after all, whether he could walk ary more. His groping hands struck hard against something wooden. Througli the mists crowding in upon his brain he realised that he was battering feebly upon the door of a house. Hit! fast-failing faculties were faintly aware that the door opened aud a woman’s voice exclaimed: “Dawk a mussy. come right inside! Why you look like a corpse!” And then he supposed he fainted for he remembered nothing more until he opened bis eyes to see a small bedroom, its walls covered with oleographs and texts, and he himself lying upon a feather bed, looking up into a woman’s plain, kind face. “Well, there, I'm glad you’ve woke up, sir,” she said. “Came in out of the fire, and I’m sure I'm glad you wasn’t

worse hurt —a bit singed, the doctor said.” “A bit singed, was I?” Mi’s. Gregson, the plain-faced woman, noticed the quiet charm of bis voice. “It was a marvellous escape.” “Ah, you may say so, sir,” Mrs. Gregson’s tongue clicked. “There’s a lot o’dead, they say, not got out yet, suffocated and what not, in the fire. And some,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “well, there’s some as i couldn’t be recognised. They’re identifying them by the things they had I with them, and such.” S “How long have I been here?” the man in the bed asked the question with a puzzled sense of having lost count of time. “You came last night. The doctor [ he looked in as soon as ever he could and he thought you’d come round all i right. He did just look through your pockets, sir, thinking we ought to let your friends know, but the doctor he said you hadn’t a letter on you, nor a notebook, nor nothing.” “A notebook? But surely?” the man half sat up and his brows drew together in an effort of remembrance. “I thought,” he began, but he Jay down again with the sentence unfinished. “Oh, it doesn't matter,” he said, conscious only of deadly lasistude, and of a headache that made consecutive thinking a torture. His hotel? Oh, never mind; he must leave It alone now. He would have a sleep, after the tea that good woman had given him. When he awakened his brain would feel more alive. He would go round to the hotel and settle up there, and then he would go back—go back— His thoughts drifted away into dreams, dreams in which he seemed to be for ever struggling along a corridor through stifiing smoke, pursued by Aames that licked and leapt behind him. And the girl—there was a girl—where had she gone? Her eyes had been grey and fearless. But the smoke was so thick, and the Aames leapt and leapt like orange demons straight from hell; there was no air to breathe, and death was creeping up to him. But he did not fear death. Death would be an escape from it all. He awoke upon that thought, and the very words in his dream lingered with him—“ Death would be an escape from ’it all.” He laughed a little hoarse laugh and looked at a strip of blue sky visible through the small window. Death was not for him! He had literally been snatched or had snatched himself—from the burning. Life’s burden was still there, waiting for him to take it again upon his shoulders. Whilst his thought were still busy, Mrs. Gregson tip-toed into the room, aud put a newspaper on his bed. “That’s the evening paper,” she said, “and they’ve got a lot of new things they’ve found out. And sad things too, some of them.” Her tongue clicked again, “There’s that Dr. Dashwood now—dreadful I call it.”

“Dr. Dashwood, Why—l—what about him?” the man ended his sentence hurriedly. “They only found his note-book, or pocket-book, or whatever you like to call it. Well, he must have been burnt to a cinder! They found it lying near him, but they couldn't recognise him, poor man.” “Couldn’t recognise—” the other voice tailed into silence. But Mrs. Gregson, well launched on her recitation of horrors, went on glibly: “Yes. They found the pocket-book with Dr. Dashwood’s name and all in it, and some letter in the pocket of the book. And there it lay. close to the poor man’s hand. But they couldn’t recognise him. Dr. Fisher, who had been working at something with Dr. Dashwood yesterday, went to identify him, but couldn’t.” She again emphasised this fact, and her hearer merely lay and listened, while his thoughts began to sort themselves, bewildered still, but with a glimmering of order behind the bewilderment. He turned the pages of the newspaper and read the account of the fire. Yes. there it was in plain English for all to read. “We deeply regret to announce that, among those who did not escape, -was the rising surgeon. Dr. Francis Dashwood. Although Identification of the remains is impossible, the discovery of his pocket-book, evidently dropped from his pocket as he left his seat, leaves no room for doubt. Dr. Dashwood was spending a few days in. Bramstoue’s well-known hotel, the Ship, and he had announced his intention of going to the theatre on the fatal evening.” The man in the bed read the newspaper account twice. As he read his confused thoughts grew clearer and

more clear, and there was a curious smile upon his face. Mrs. Gregson said later in the day that you could have knocked her down with a feather when her lodger appeared in the kitchen, looking gaunt and white still, but obviously quite himself. “I have to thank you more than I can say for your kind hospitality,” he said, and again she noticed -the charming quality of his voice. “You must let me settle with you now before I go,” and he drew a case of Treasury notes from his pocket. But Mrs. Gregson shook her head determinedly. “What! A bed and a cup o’ tea?” she asked. “You came to me not knowing and all dazed-like, and I’m sure I was pleased to help. T wouldn't take a penny if it was ever so. Would you like me to send round to the hotel for your things?” she added, indicating his torn and singed evening clothes. He smilingly refused. “It doesn’t matter.” he answered. “I shall soon be all right.” Then, with another smile and more words of thanks, he went out into the alley and walked quietly away. “And would you believe it?” Mrs. Gregson said afterwards, “I never remembered to ask his name!” CHAPTER 11. THE PHOTOGRAPH. “That was the man who saved UP’ life,” she said, and her voice was eager, “tell me his name. All these days since the fire I have longed to find out who he was that I might thank him. If it had not been for him I could never have got Out The place burned so quicklv—so quicklv ’ Judith Merivale shivered and the old doctor, iu whose consulting room she

sat, bent forward and patted he-* shoulder gently. “Now, Miss Merivale,” he said, “I know I am asking you a difficult thing, but try to put the memory of that night out of your mind. Make yourself think of something else directly it comes back to you. You are a brave woman. You are a woman ot self-control. Use your courage and your self-control to force yourself to put that night behind you.” A faint smile crossed the face of the woman whom Dr. Davidson was watching with such close attention. “It is not easy to forget such a nightmare,” she said, the faint smile fading as again she shivered. “I was not brave. I simply stayed still be cause I knew it was silly to try to light my way out. Ai*d then—he came,” she nodded toward a photograph that stood upon the old doctors table. “And be was so quiet, so sure, There was such a serene look in his eyes.” "Had you ever seen him before?” Something in the old man’s voice made bis patient turn her gaze shayply from the pictured face to his. “No, oh no,” she said. “He was a total stranger. But I should like to thank him for all he did for me on that awful night of—was it really only a month ago? You see, the glow of the fire on the photograph showed me his face quite plainly. It was the sort of face you could not ever forget ” “Yes,” the old man at the table echoed dreamily, “it was an unforgettable face. Those of us who knew Francis Dashwood will never forget his face.” His voice shook, and Judith, aware SUPERFLUOUS HAIR destroyed by "RCSMA” (Regd.). Signed, stamped, guaranteed cure, £5 12s 6d.— Florence Hullen, C.M.D., 7 Courtenay Place, Wellington. Send stamped 1 addressed envelope for particulars.

of the sudden quaver in .it, leant forward with a quick indrawing of the breath. “Why do you speak like that?” she said, “as if—as if ” “My dear Miss Merivale, by one of those strange coincidences which often seem stranger than Action, I put Francis Dashwood’s photograph on my table this morning, and you come to consult me and recognise it. And it was Francis Dashwood who saved your life.” For a long moment there was silence in the consulting room, the eyes of both the old doctor ana the woman who sat facing him were turned to the photograph upon the table. “Tell me,” Judith said, after that pregnant silence, "surely he was saved, too? The Are escape ” “As far as we know there was no time to save him.” The old doctor’s voice seemed to Judith to reach her from some immense distance. “The place was a raging furnace. He was fouud in the building ” “Then he gave his life for me,” she was on her feet, her hand grasping the edge of the table, a wave of colour Aooding her face. “He gave his life for me —a perfect stranger.” Her voice broke, a sob caught in her throat —“I wanted to thank him for what he did,” she whispered, "and I can't. He gave his life for me and there is nothing I can do.” The old doctor had risen. His hand rested again on her shoulder. “Francis Dashwood was the best, man I ever knew,” he said, “he died as he lived—‘Greater love hath no man than this.’ But don’t say ‘there is nothing I can do.’ Those words ‘Their works do follow them,’ surely mean something. If Francis Dashwood gave his life for you, cannot you | so use that life as to be a noble work i—a great remembrance of him?” j

Judith was silent for a moment; her, eyes grew misty. “I wish I could do anything so won- 1 derful as to be a great remembrance of that man. Even in those few minutes I was with him I felt I was j with someone quite unique—apart.” "Yes, you are using the right words.” A smile trembled over Dr. ; Davidson's lips. “Francis Dashwood was unique, apart. It seems a queer irony of fate that he should have j lost his life in a little provincial town j like Bramstone. It seems like the throwing away of something so valuable. Yet perhaps one ought not to feel about it in that way. I don’t suppose he minded dying. Except for his work, life held nothing for him.” “Do you mean he had an unhappy life?” Judith’s glance turned back to the pictured face. “If you ask me to state the truth in plain English I should say his life was a hell.” came the grim response. “He married a woman with a lovely face, but no soul. She had neither heart nor soul. Mind you, Francis never complained. That was never his way. He was loyal to the very tips of his Angers. But nobody could know them without realising what his life with that woman must have been—one long hell.” “Poor man!” Judith said softly. “It seems so tragic that it should all have ended as it has.” “Well, who car, say what is really tragedy? At any rate, in the fuller life, to which I am sure Francis Dashwood has gone, lie will have new opportunities, fresh chances of work, and endeavour —and joy.” The two were silent for a moment, then Judith said hesitatingly. “I didn't only come this morning to ask you to set silly nerves right, but 1 you are such au old friends and such a

kind triend, that I want to ask your help and advice." “Your father and I were boys together, that constitutes good ground for friendship, and when I heard of his death I felt something had gone out of my life, even though we had not met for years. He was busy with his painting in the country; r had a big practice in town. Naturally we drifted apart." •‘O ily his daughter worried you no« and then with odds and ends of ailments!” , “Very few ailments. ’’ the old doctor looked’ at the face before him—the face of an obviously healthy woman. “Mow tell me in what way 1 can help you. This prescription will soon set right the very natural shocks of the lire; but I gather there is_ something else yon want to ask me." “I want to ask your adv:ee about work.” “About work? But there is surely no need for you to work? I thought your father had private means, as well as the proceeds of his painting. He was a great painter.” Judith flushed. | “Dr. Davidson. I don't understand I it. I don’t think our solicitor quite . understands it. But when we came I to look into dad's affairs after his : death we found that there is scarcely I anything for me.” , “God bless my soul!" was all that Dr. Davidson was capable of saying. He sat back in his chair staring at hie visitor in undisguised amazement. “But 1 always looked upon your father as a well-to-do man.” “I think we all looked upon him in the same light. The actual state of things came to us as a great surprise I say his’ but I ought to say me. I jam the only person affected. lam ' glad to think mother has not lived ! to be poor."