Love Set Free

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1041, 4 August 1930, Page 5

Love Set Free

COPYRIGHT

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

By

L.G. MOBERLY

Author of “Cleansing Fire*.” “In Apple Blossom Time,’’ “Threads of. Life,” etc.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. Prologue.—Concerns husband and wife —Dr. and Mrs. Dashwood. Millicent is a hard-hearted, worldly-minded. flippant young woman, with a lovely face and no soul to speak of. She flies into one of her tantrums Tier husband speaks reasonably. trying- to pacify her, but fails. Chapter I.—A fire in Bramstone Theatre. Panic ensues. There are many fatalities. Judith Merivale, in the front row of the upper circle, stands firm, wau-htng the pandemonium. A man touches her shoulder, saying he will try to *Eet her out. Amid the smother and pother he gets her to a fire-escape. The fireman gets her down in a semi-con-scious condition. Later the man emerges from a side door into an alley. He is much singed and is suffering. H-.* batters on the door of a house. A woman admits him: then he faints. He wakes to find himself in a bedroom, lying on a feather-bed. Mrs. Gregson finds him conscious, and cheerfully informs hi;u that there are lots of dead. The doc tor, who had come in the night before, could not find anything wherewith to identify his patient. After drinking some tea he falls asieep again. Later the woman informs him that Dr. Dashwood has perished in the fire. She gives* him the newspaper and he reads the information that his body has been found and identified as that of the rising surgeon. Dr. Francis Dashwood. T.ater in the day. Dr. Dashwood. clad in his singed clothing, thanks Mrs. Gregson for her care of him and walks quietly away. Chapters 11. and lll.—Judith MerivaJe calls on Dr. Davidson, an old friend of her dead father’s. She sees the photograph picture of Dr. Dashwood, and recognises her rescuer. Dr. Davidson tells her that Dr. Dashwood perished in the fire. She asks him for advice about work. Her father died a poor man, tnuch to her surprise.

j CHAPTER ll.—(Continued.) “Poor!” The doctor sat bolt up ; right. “You are not trying to tell mo j you are facing poverty—you, Judith ! Merivale—Henry Merivale’s daugb | ter?” i “As far as I ,can see, 1 shall not have even a hundred pounds a year, j I went down to Bramstone to see about some house property dad owned there. That is why l was there on that night. But it is not going to bring in much. I was staying the night in lodgings and went to the theatre to pass the time.” “I see.” Dr. Davidson saw also her irrepressible shudder, and quietly changed the subject. “Then it is a question of ways and means about which you wanted to consult me?” “I wondered whether you could suggest some work I could do—an untrained person like me, who has done nothing but keep house for dad. What could ?” “You wouldn’t like to take llie post of companion to Francis Dashwood’s widow. I suppose?” Dr. Davidson broke in suddenly. “By an odd coincklerifce I had a note from her this morning, asking if I knew of anyone suitable. She says she doesn’t think she can live quite alone, and she writes to me as an old friend of her husband.” Judith’s glance once more turned toward the photograph. The serene eyes under the broad brow seemed to meet hers squarely. The well-cut lips gave the face an expression of quiet strength. “Mrs. Dashwood?” she said, after a pause. “Do you think —I mean should I do? Was she dreadfully upset a month ago, when it happened?” “ ‘Dreadfully upset’ are not words one could ever apply to Mrs. Dash wood.” The doctor's voice was dry. “She is not a woman who shows feelings—if she has' any feelings," he added with irony. “She wrote and asked if I knew of any lady who would go to her in the capacity of companion-secretary. She said she felt she could not. quite live alone, and I daresay she is right about that. But to tell you the truth, when I got her letter, I thought, ‘Heaven help the poor companion!’ I only mention the work to you because —well —because there is the situation waiting for you, if you like to take it.” “Certainly I should like to take it," Judith said firmly. Dr. Davidson observed, not for the first time, in wliat firm lines her lips were moulded. “I have no qualifications for pleasanter professions. I am the proverbial beg gar who cannot choose; and, quite frankly, I shall be glad to accept any job which will help out my own income.”

“Mis. Dashwood offers eighty pounds a year. Mind you, I don’t think that is enough to give someone who is practically giving herself up body and soul, to do what cannot be very congenial work. Still, there it is, and ” suddenly his eyes twinkled. “Frankly, I should rather like to see how you and Mrs. Dashwood will get along together. It will be an interesting experiment. Would you like me to write you a letter of introduction, and will you go ’ round to Mrs. Dashwood at once?”

Very gratefully Judith took the letter her father’s old friend handed to her. A few minutes later she was walking down Harley Street, feeling that the world was brighter than it had been to her for many a long day. Her father’s illness and death five months before, the ensuing anxiety and worry when the state of his affairs had become known, had involved a physical and mental state to recover from which she had gone for a week to lodgings in Bramstone. The theatre fire had taken place upon the last night of her stay in the little place, and the shock following upon the previous strain had left her bereft of her usual buoyancy and courage. Coming to London. in search of work, she had paid the visit to Dr.

Davidson which,.as she thankfully reflected, had helped her in more ways than one. It was with a heart full of hope that she finally came to a halt at the door of a house in Cavendish Square. As she stood at the top of the steps, waiting for her ring at the bell to be answered, the door opened and a tall man came quickly out, only pulling himself up just in time to avoid colliding with the waiting girl. He lifted his hat and murmured an apology. Judith was aware of a thin, humorous face, and of two very blue eyes.

"I had no business to come bursting out of the house like a young typhoon,” he said. “Do please forgive me. You look quite startled,” he added, observing the sudden nervous fear that had flashed over her face.

“Little things startle me rather just now,” she answered, laughing a little shakily. “I haven't quite got over a nasty shock.” “Ah, well, a shock leaves one a bit rattled, doesn’t it?” be responder] cheerily, taking in with those observant eyes of bis the girl's fair, flushed face, her rather troubled grey eyes, and the strong line of mouth and chin. Then as the parlour-maid stood expectantly at the door, he lifted his hat and was gone.

CHAPTER 111. THE NEW EMPLOYER

“Of course, anyone recommended bydear Dr. Davidson would have a first claim on me.” The voice was smooth as silk, tlie speaker’s eyes, as they rested on Judith’s face, were full of friendly interest. “He has been so marvellously good, so wonderful to me in this awful time. He told you—perhaps he told you—what has happened?” ■There was a little tremor in Mi.'licent Dashwood’s tone: Judith could have sworn 'there were tears in the dark eyes. And yet it seemed to her that the other woman’s words did not ring quite true. She assured herself that she was prejudiced—prejudice, 1 because of all that the old doctor had told her about Francis Dashwood and j his wife. But the fact nevertheless remained, she sensed rather than actually felt, that the beautiful woman who spoke to her with such charming suavity was not sincere. “Yes, I know what happened, Judith realised that she was spealciijg with unwonted bluntness; “besides which,” she added, almost involuntarily, “directly I saw the photograph ca Dr. Davidson’s table 1 knew that he—that Dr. Dashwood —had given, his life for mine.” “His life for yours?” Millicent. looked her genuine amazement. “But how? Wha’t do you mean?” “He helped me out of the theatre," Judith explained rather Confusedly, “and then—evidently had no time to get out himself.” "How quixotic! How like him!” Millicent exclaimed, a sardonic tone in her voice, which she changed quickly into one of soft sadness. “My husband was always doing things for other peoplfe,” she added. “It was wonderful of him to help a stranger as he helped me.” Judith's voice rang with enthusiasm, and Mil 11cent’s lovely lips curled slightly. “Oh, he would have done it for cue merest beggar in the street.” she said "He was like that. In fact, really I believe he preferred the beggars. He wanted me to settle down in the East End, somewhere at the back of beyoud, that he might work among the peop’ there. But 1 refused, flatly refus / Do you think you see me in a place where there are nothing bu- docks and marshes and horrible slum people?” "No, I cannot fancy you in that sort of place,” was Judith’s rather curt retort, as her glance took in the exquisitely gowned figure, “I should think you would feel dreadfully like a fish out of water.” “Of course, I should! That’s ex actly what I told my husband. I said i should only make him miserable, and myself, too. Oh, well,” she shrugged heY shoulder- gracefully, “he gave up the mad idea, and did very well in nis West End work.” “He was doing great things in research, wasn’t he?” Judith questioned eagerly, remembering Dr. Davidsorfs words but the other woman’s shoulders went up again.” ’Oh, yes, I believe so, but I simply* loathe doctoring and everything to do with it. I never allowed Francis to mention any of his horrid experiments to me, or to tell me anything about his work.” A wave of resentment swept oreJudith. The strong face of the man who had helped her out of the burning theatre, flashed before her. The

serene eyes looked again into hers. His very voice sounded in her ears and she drew iu her breath quickly. “It must have been such interesting work,” she ventured.

"Interesting? Gracious no! Only interesting in the sense that, a lot of it paid very well,” Millicent laughed shrilly. “That part of it was quite satisfactory, but the rest —oh. dear me, no,” she shuddered effectively. “I cannot stand sick people, or anything to do with sick rooms; and as for germs, and bacilli, and all the other detestable things iu which Francis dabbled, I never want to hear them mentioned again. Oh well, we are wandering from the point,” she broke off to say quickly: "You see I felt I couldn't exactly live alone.” She took a side glance at herself in a long mirror beside the fireplace. “And my friends agree with me (hat T ought to have someone here, so that was why I wrote that note to Dr. Davidson Now, do you think you could come to me soon? I want somebody really at once.”

"The question is—am I the sort of person who will suit you?” Judith answered with a sudden feeling that the last thing she wished to do. and could do, was to live with this lovely woman.

“Oh, I'm sure you will suit me," Millicent responded, carelessly. “And anyhow, Dr. Davidson’s recommendation is quite enough. He knows what I want. If he says you are all right for me. you are all right. That’s tliai, don’t you know?” She laughed a light laugh, which seemed to Judith to lack ail depth. “All I want you to do is to come at. once. People are beginning to talk.” she smiled consciously. “You see, men will come to see me, and then tongues cackle.” Again she laughed, that light laugh which fretted Judith's nerves.

“The woman is innately vulgar,” was the thought which went through her mind, while aloud she said: “If you would like me to come to you at once I can easily come; iu fact, I should be glad to come. I have no home, and I am only in lodgings in town.”

Millicent neither had, nor pretended to have, the slightest interest in Judith's concerns; other people's affairs were non-existent lor her, excepting inasmuch as they bore upqu her own life, and she only nodded absently.

“That’s settled, then. You wiJi come tomorrow, and by the way I shall not want you to he hanging about me much; or reading aloud; or doing any of the usual companion kind of things. As long as you are in the house, and I can get you to do anything I want, that’s all that matters. You needn't be perpetually sitting in the drawing room, for instance.”

“t quite understand,” Judith smiled. “1 will be always ‘oil tap’ and never obtrusive. Is that what you mean?” “Exactly what I mean! By the way did you meet, a man as you came in?” “Yes. Someone came out as I stood on the doorstep.” "Oh. well, that’s -one of my husband’s executors, Derek Stanesley. He keeps me in order,” a slightly acid note showed in her voice “Or perhaps I ought to say he tries to keep me in order. He lives in the country, scrap ink along on some old farm of his. 1 fancy: but he thinks it necessary to come up now and then to see how lam behaving Francis thought him n kind of human archangel.” Judith was standing up ready to de part, and she congratulated herself that the opening of the drawing room door by the parlour maid made un necessary a reply to the rather acid remark. She did not catch the name the maid announced, but a man came into the room, a man at sight of whom her eyes dilated, the colour slowly drained out of her face, and she stood staring at him as though rooted to the floor.

Her new employer meanwhile was greeting him with overflowing friend liness, and he held her hand in a close clasp which Judith resented for her, though she did not appear to resent it for herself. Then he ail ai once became aware of the other woman in the room, standing silently staring at him with startled eyes, and —becoming aware of her, a startled expression also came into his eyes But almost as soon as it had come it was gone, before Millicent was aware of it, and the newcomer turned to Judith with outstretched hand and a suave smile.

“-Miss Merivale! What a surprise!” he said, in a voice as suave as his smile. "I had no idea that you were even in town.”

“You know Miss Merivale?” Millicent intervened sharply, before Judith had time to reply. '“Mr. Robertson and I have met in

my father’s house in Sussex.” It was Judith who spoke now, and only a very close observer would have noticed the tremor in her voice, and the quiet withdrawal of her hand from the white, fat hand that held it. “Mr. Merivale’s pictures, his beautiful pictures!” The suave » voice took on a rapturous note. But Judith answered nothing, only her glance remained fixed upon the man’s face in the way that a frightened animal watches a snake.

Horace Robertson was a big man, in age nearer fifty than forty. Hand some he was in a certain coarse fash ion; with rather flabby cheeks, and many lines about his mouth and eyes, but the eyes themselves were bright and shrewd, and the jaw spoke of determination that might develop into mulish obstinacy. He was smiling now, smiling down into Milliceut’s lovely upturned face. “Miss Merivale’s father painted some beautiful pictures. I liked idling about his studio.” Just for a second his eyes flashed a glance at Judith and she coloured faintly. “His death is a great loss to Art, a great loss.”

“Miss Merivale is coming to live with me,” Millicent put in. “I felt I must have somebody, and she is going to be my companion.” “Your companion!” the information seemed momentarily to shake the big, complacent man out of his complacency. “Dear me, what an interesting piece of news,” he finished quickly, with an obvious desire to hide his astonishment. “I am sure the arrangement should be mutually agreeable,” he went on, with a little bow in the direction of each woman in turn, “if I may say so, I think you two ladies will suit each other admirably.”

“I ” Judith began, but Millicent broke in as though the other had not spoken. “Oh, it will be all right. Miss Merivale is coming tomorrow You needn’t bother to wait now,” she nodded to Judith. “Just turn up some time, and tell Dr. Davidson I’ve taken his advice.”

Without finishing the sentence she had begun, Judith made her escape, but, as she went fast along the street her heart was beating in heavy throbs, and she felt shaken and dismayed. “If I hadn’t been a coward I should have refused to take the situation,” she reflected. “But having agreed to go, I didn’t know how to get out of it. And now what peace is there going to be for me in my new work? If Horace Robertson knows where I am what peace will there be?” CHAPTER IV. CONFEDERATES. “Pull yourself together, man, and try to listen to what I am telling you. ’ “Listen! How can I listen? Wify don’t you leave me alone? I feel utterly rotten, add I’m sick ! ;o death of the whole business.” “Possibly you are, but y.'u’ve got to understand once for all that I don’t want you hanging about here This flat has been lent me by a friend, and —hang it all, man, you must see for yourself that my friend mightn't care to have you on the premises.” The man to whom these remarks were addressed—a young man whose face bore traces either of severe illness, or unlimited dissipation, laughed a little bitter, mirthless laugh, looking up at the speaker with heavy eyes. He was sunk down in the depths of a oig armchair, in a room whose furniture was somewhat ornate and pretentious; aud his companion stood on the hearthrug looking down at him with undisguised contempt. “I daresay your friend wouldn't cure to have me iu his v.-ell-appoiuted flat,” the man in the. chair said shortly, “though,” he pulled himself up a little, “though, when all's said and done, I don't know that there’s much to choose between you and me, Horace.” “Much to choose between —” the older man gave a gulp, and left his sentence unended, only infusing added contempt into his glance, and a scornful note into the laugh which followed his words. “Oh, well,” the other man moved his head restlessly against a velvet cusa ion behind him. “You can’t pretend you come of an Archangel breed yourself. And what have I done more than you’ve done, if you get down to brass tacks? The money ” “Never mind about the money—that’s not the point at the moment. You’ve let yourself go to a disgusting, a disgraceful extent—over this beastly drug. You can’t pretend you are fit company for any decent people.” “Pm not forcing my company on

any decent people,” a snigger broke from the younger man. “I’m only giving you the benefit of it; and you cannot expect me or anybody else to call you a saint, or a very respectable member of society. What ho! Mr. Horace Robertson. Little Herbert Holt knows one or two pretty little things about you, which might make your friend think twice before letting you have his jolly old flat again.” His heaviness and apathy were wear ing off; his eyes were losing their be mused expression; he spoke with a certain briskness and no longer lolled helplessly in the chair. Robertson frowned, and his coarse face took on an expression of sullen determination He put a heavy hand upon Holt’s arm.

“Look here, my god chap, stop talking unutterable rot. I am not posing as any kind of saint. Heaven knows I don’t aspire to sainthood ” “Not much use if 3 r ou did,” the other put in, with again a faint snigger. Robertson went on regardless of the interruption. “Rut whatever I may have done or left undone. I have not put myself outside the pale, and you have.”

“Outside the pale? What are you talking about? Why am I outside the pale and you inside? Tell me that.” Holt stumbled to his feet and remained standing. although he was obliged to grab hold of the mantelpiece to keep himself upright, and even then was unable to stand steadily.

“Because I have not reduced myself to something lower than the beasts by taking opium,” was the harsh retort. “You have put yourself outside the pale, Holt. Nobody else has put you there.”

A dull flush crept over the sallow face of the younger man. Anger smouldered in his ey'es. “That statement comes well from 3 T ou,” he said, with slow significance “and how did I ever come to know a 113'tiling about the filthy stuff? Who first showed me the way to it? You are a hypocrite, Horace, a hypocrite

and a devil,” he was lashing himself into fur>\ “Why did you set about to ruin me as well as that old man? There was nothing to gain by’ working for my ruin! I had no money to hand over to >*ou. Why did you set about to ruin me—body and soul—body* and soul?” His fury died down as suddenly' as it had arisen. All his temporary vigour sagged away from him again; his eyes no longer glowed, but became lustreless and heavy once more The flush faded from his face, leav ing an unhealthy sallowness: he swayed where he stood, and all ,at once dropped back into the arm-chair with an inarticulate moan. “Not fair,” he muttered*-**not fair. Poor old Merivale and me. You drew us both into j'our net. You made me 3 r our cat’s paw, and he was our victim, our victim.” His words died down in incoherent mutterings, and Robertson stood looking at him with a scornful smile, while his eyes closed and his limbs relaxed as though all life and energy had suddenly- ebbed from him. The older man shrugged his shoulders. Then turning toward a bureau in one corner of the room he sat down in front of it and drew forward a blotter. “Can’t have this fellow worrying round here continually-,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at Holt's inanimate figure. “The question is where will he be safest, and most out of the way?”

For several moments he sat in deep thought, turning the pages of his blotter mechanically, until all at once inspiration seemed to come to him. “Got it!” he exclaimed, flattening out a half-sheet of paper with his hand, and picking up a pen. “He cannot do any mischief there, at least, any mischief except to himself,” he added, cynically. “And ! don’t intende to let him worry me here. If he wants to sink into an opium derelict, let him.” Again nis contemptuous glauce rested on the silent figure which had crumpled up into such a huddled heap. “I don’t say the lodging is ideal! But still, it might be worse. Lucky I happened upon it in my East End wanderings.” While these reflections went through his mind, and were partially mutttered iu a low voice, he wrote an address upon the half sheet of paper, and having done so, went to Holt's side.

**Look here, my good chap, 3*ou must rouse j'ourself and get a move on,” ho said, in loud, clear tones, emphasising the words by giving the drowsy a lusty shake. “I’ve told you I won'have 3'ou here, and I mean what 1 sa3\”

Holt’s eyes opened slowly. He stared with bewilderment at Robei tson.

“Oh,” he muttered, “mean w hat you sa>’, do you ? Aud I ” he awo . j more fully—“and I am just a dou. lower tkau a dog. am I, because I learnt what you put me in the w v of learning?” He laughed, a dreadfully' mirthless laugh. “And the man. What about him? He wjs happy enough with his pictures and his daughter until you butted in and worked on his weaknesses ph, yes he was weak aud I was weak It’s easy to see that now. Look at what hai>pened to him. and what you hav-» made of me.” Holt’s laughter turn* <1 into feeble sobs, aud the older man administered jet another shake. “For Heaven’s sake pull y ourself Together, man.” he exclaimed, irritably, “and leave off talking about Merivale.” “Oh! Conscience pricks you. does it?” the weak sobs ceased suddenly. Holt glanced at Robertson with a d. licious smile, “and you must have <* pretty hardened conscience if tn « thought of Merivale doesn’t g.ve it * prick or two. Cleared out his pocke«v as well as ruined his soul, didn't you .”’ “Hold your tongue, confound you.” was the savage rejoinder. “Can’t you let sleeping dogs lie? What’s done—r is done—and there’s an end of it.” “If the dogs consent to stay aslee*\ let them,” Holt chuckled. “But will they sleep on. or will they wake up and bark? What about Miss Judith? Does she accept the position without a word? Have you convinced her you are a super-saint?”