LOVE Set Free

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1053, 18 August 1930, Page 5

LOVE Set Free

COPYRIGHT

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

By

L.G. MOBERLEY

Author ot "Cleansing Fires,” “In Apple Blossom Time,” “Threads ot lafs,” at<

CHAPTER XVII. (Continued). “Wanted you?” the doctor looked perplexed. “Yes. He wanted to tell me the truth. He —and that other, the one you saved me from —had ruined my father. He wanted to tell me, but I think he is sorry now* for what he did.” “Poor chap! Whatever he has done, he is paying for it now—paying pretty heavily. He can’t last much longer.” “I saw he was very ill, and I really don’t blame him so much for anything that happened. I believe he was only Mr. Robertson's catsp'aw; a catspaw of that dreadful man who was in the street just now.” “I’m glad I came along at the right moment,” the doctor spoke with intentioned lightness, seeing the girl’s state of nervous tension. “I don’t think that gentleman will give you any more trouble. Now you must tell me where you live and let me take you home.”

“I live at the Hornbys—Dr. Hornby’s; I work there.” “You work at the Hornbys’?” His glance ran over her fair, flushed fact* and graceful form, “but —surely—” “l am a mother's help,” Judith smiled rather waveringly. “Mrs. Hornby wanted one, and I wanted work. Nurse Alison is a friend of mine, and she got me the post.” ‘‘Nurse Alison?” A note of unconsciously warm admiration crept into the man’s voice. “She is wonderful, an angel of light in these dark places. I don’t know what we should do her: without Nurse Alison.” That unforgettable voice! Judith became acutely aware of it again, now that her nerves were recovering themselves. The voice, the quiet eyes that looked at her with so compelling a. glance. Surely she could not be mistaken iu the eyes and voice? Her thoughts flew back to Bramstone and the fire again. And yet—the bearded face was strange to her. She had ne J’® r seen this man before—at least — She spoke impulsively aud with apparent irrelevance: you first came to help me just now i thought it was the second ume you had saved me. Your voice—”

Saved you?” The doctor drew back A little more into the shadow, but ho spoke quite quietly. “I don’t think I ave «ver seen you before, have 1? wave you been down here long? I * should remember it.” .Not here. It was not here. Oh ir?’ never met in London. But th * fire —ghastly fire in the neatre—you—at least, no, of course, n not have been you.” She Pulled herself up confusedly. “I am aking a mistake. Please forgive rh e> the man who saved me from o nre in Bramstone Theatre had a oice so very like yours. When I ard your voice, it was like hearing again. He gave his life for she ended softly. Rave his life?” save d me. He himself was not saved; he perished in the fire. But,* I o B P? ke w ’t-h soft eagerness, “I wish nnt° Ul< * that his sacrifice was hpt* made in vain. I have been a fip o er^ oman because of his sacria] * Because of what he did, I have always felt that I had seen the higliand must strive after it, too. To h- v as *° llis friend, Derek Stanesley. nas been a kindling inspiration.” CHAPTER XVIII. THOUGHTS Stanesley, walking across the as near his home in the soft light *M e y enini? - let kis thoughts . range bv rt* y ' Their ranging widened out y degrees from questions of crops, sots and P° ultr y- to subjects of altortini er , an °ther category. It is always cult to follow the steps by which abn qUenCe ot t hou Kht is brought „ j Ut - Association of ideas is a queer hav thing; and Derek would hi. e tound it very hard to explain why niUßings upon the rival merits of

i Wyandottes aud Dorkings; his mental questionings as to whether potatoes or beans should be planted in a particular plot—had led hint by devious paths to a seat in Regent’s Park, and a girl who sat upon the seat and looked at him with starry grey eyes. In his busy life no woman had ever before made any particular appeal to this man of the whimsical face and blue eyes. There were women to whom he enjoyed talking as friends; women he admired. But no woman had ever caught at his heart as this grey-eyed girl had done. And although he had fought against the witchery which was gradually laying its touch upon him, he could not sliake it. away. Quite unconsciously. Judith had woven a web about him from which he was unable to free himself. Did he want to free himself? He paused iu his walk and smiled, then chuckled aloud: “What would the incurable romantic say, I wonder?” he murmured. “Supposing I go and ask her.” Smiling still, he left the path along which he was walking, and taking a narrower track climbed up the steep meadow to a gap in the hedge opening into a lane. And just at the bend of the lane, where the ground dropped more abruptly to the plain, stood a low-, white house, set back in a garden. A woman sat in the porch, looking out across the plain to the golden glory in the w r est. Seeing who her visitor was, she rose with outstretched hand. “How delightful,” she said. “Come and enjoy the pageant with me.” He sat down beside her, facing the splendour of sky and plain, but it was upon her that llis gaze was fixed. She was very small and dainty. She might have sat for the portrait of a fairy godmother, with her snowy crown of hair, her dark, bright eyes and the colouring that many a younger woman envied. She wore a gown of rich, soft purple, with flinty lace at the neck and wrists, a gown made in a fashion that exactly suited her and made her more than ever seem like a bit of a fairy tale. “You have the most wonderful view in the heighbourhood,” he said, “as well as the most perfect garden. I love them Tioth. But this evening I haven’t come to concentrate on either. I want your advice.”

“My advice? Derek Stanesley, since when have you begun to ask an old woman for advice? And are you in the least likely to take the advice when given?” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Her smile made her look absurdly youthful. “I wouldn’t ask advice from any stray- old woman,” was the prompt retort. “But I consider you are a person apart. I come to you because you are an incurable romantic, as I have often told you. And—l will take your advice, if ” “If it happens to coincide with what you have already decided to do?” she questioned demurely, her eyes twinkling again. “Well,” he laughed, “I wasn’t exactly going to say that. I was going to say-, if it were possible to carry out your advice.” “Things are mostly possible if we make up our minds they shall be,” she retorted briskly, “and if you really want my advice about something, I will give it you for what it is worth. But remember I am—what y-ou called me—an incurable romantic. I should probably take what the world would call the sentimental view of any question. But remember,” she suddenly spoke with great earnestness, “I detest sentimentality. I admire sentiment. They are two different things. Sentimentality is mere sloppiness. The best of all life is founded on sentiment. Now then, ask me your riddle? The Sibyl will try to answer.” “You were my mother’s oldest friend, and y-ou have been a good friend to me.” thfc words came abruptly. I ” he paused. “The woman I have always wanted to see stepping into your life has

conns at last. Is that it?” she asked when he paused Sylvia Latherly had a very wise soul behind those dark eyes of hers, and there had always been a very tender corner in her heart for the son of her old friend, Elspeth Stanesley. She looked at him now with a smile that held something of motherlytenderness. “ ’The not impossible she’ has reallymaterialised, Derek?” "Will you think me a fooL—an impetuous boyish fool? 1 have- only met her four times in all, and three of those times other people were there, t have only once talked to her all to myself; and yet I want to go straight away and carry her off, and bring her to the Manor.” "Well. Why not?” “Why not? Because she would think me mad, would she not, if I asked her to marry me, when she probably looks on me as scarcely more than a stranger? Could I? 1 mean—is it possible to rush a woman in that way?” “It depends on the woman, oh young Lochinvar! it depends on the circumstances, Have you any reason to suppose she might perhaps like you?” Judith’s grey eyes, with a sudden startled look in them of pleased surprise. of —what was it?—he could not quite say, seemed to look into his eyes. The smile that had wavered across Judith’s face that, day in Regent’s Park, flashed into his consciousness. “I—l think tike likes me a little.” he said.

“Make her like you more,” Mrs. Latlierly said quickly. “No woman is averse from an impetuous wooing. Even in these matter-of-fact days, you won’t make me believe romance is dead. Derek, my dear, take my advice.” Her dark eyes glowed. “Sweep her off her feet. Can’t you even in these dull, material times, play a young Lochinvar part? Of course, it will have to be done with motors or airplanes, not on horseback. But can’t it still be done?”

“I expect it could be clone all right.” Derek’s eyes twinkled now, his smile broadened. “I knew you were an incurable romantic, I've always told you so. And what you would like me to do is to carry my lady off and make her marry me by main force ’ “Only the right sort of force —tile force of an overwhelming love,” came the gentle answer. “Woo her as impetuously as you like, but go and woo her. Show her that your love is the most real thing in the world Wake up romance in her, by overwhelming her with romance yourself. Oh, Derek, my dear, my advice to you is—go in and win.” CHAPTER XIX. DEREK’S QUESTION “I haven’t seen Miss Merivale. Where is she ?” Derek Stanesley—making trustee business an excuse for calling on Mi's. Dashwood, had promptly followed up his talk with Mrs. Latherly by a visit to town. Now he sat in the big Cavendish Square drawing room, facing the mistress of the house. Business transacted, his question had been asked. “Miss Merivale left me some weeks ago,” Millicent’s lips closed in a thin line. “It was impossible to keep lier.” “impossible to keep her? Why?” Derek Stanesley’s eyes were fixed on Millicent’s lovely, scornful face, and his-lips closed, too, in lines of determination which she had learnt to know and to dread. “She seemed most suitable.” “Oh, you think so? She probably took you in as she has others. There are limits, and I considered Miss Merivale had reached the limit.” “Limits?” Derek's voice was dangerously quiet. “Yes. Limits. Oh, my dear Mr. Stanesley, must I go into unpleasant details? Do be well advised and let sleeping dogs lie. Even though you are Francis’s executor, and one of my trustees, surely I am at liberty to run my house as I choose, and to rid it of unsuitable inmates. I need not con suit you about my servants or companions, need I?” “Certainly you need not. You are quite at liberty to arrange your house as you like. But I also am at liberty to ask you about a lady who war with you. Why was she unsuitable?” Judith’s straightforward grey eyes suddenly seemed to Derek to be looking into his, her face, and frank smile for a moment blotted out Millicent’s face, and he laughed. “Unsuitable?” 1 cannot imagine in what way that word could apply to Miss Merivale, who, when 1 was last here, seemed to suit you very well.” “You wouldn't understand,” the sneer in Millicent’s voice was unmis-

takable. “No man would understand. She could deceive the very elect.” Do you realise what you are implying?” Derek asked, sternly “After ini plications such as these you have no alternative but to explain your assertions. I know Miss Merivale. What lias she done? Why have you dis missed her?” He was surprised himself at the wave of resentment which swept over him; and the imperious note in his voice startled even Millicent’s selfcomplacency. “I still don’t see wliat business it is of yours,” she said, trying to elute 1 at her former insolent manner, but, under the indignant scrutiny of bis ! glance, not quite succeeding. “Miss j Merivale behaved in such an extraordinary way. She was so—well I can only say abandoned in her conduct toward a visitor and friend of mine, that I felt we had better part.” Derek laughed again, a contemptuous laugh. “Miss Merivale could no more behave in an abandoned way as you call ; it, than I could jump over the moon.” he said with conviction, his resent \ ment growing hotter and hotter. “You j are surely not trying to tell me you j dismissed her summarily? I can’t i really imagine you could have done ! that!” i “Oh, can’t you?” Millicent’s temper ! was rising, and when her temper cqnj quered her, her language was apt to be unmeasured. ”1 don’t see what your i imaginings have to do with it. That girl behaved viley, and I packed h r off at a moment’s notice. Thefe now you know. I hope you are satisfied.” “I am not satisfied. I am horrified. Where is Miss Merivale now? Dr. Davidson is away. She could not even go to him for help. Where is she?” “She is in some East End slum— Dickson can give you her address, I don’t know it. I don’t want to know it. I did send her off; I am glad I did.” Millicent’s temper was now at full blast, swamping every other sensation. “That Merivale . girl behaved atrociously, throwing herself at Mr. Robertson’s head, hugging him in this very drawing room, making a disgraceful scene and —” Derek was on his feet, resentment grown now to white hot indignation. “That will do,” he said, sternly, so sternly that Millicent’s flow of words stopped dead. “I have not the least doubt that Miss Merivale most thankfully left your house if you made such accusations ' against her—such outrageous accusations.”

“Outrageous accusations! They are true, perfectly true,” Millicent almost screamed. “Ask Air. Robertson about her, if you don’t believe me. He’ll tell you.” “I have only come across Air. Robertson once, but my one glimpse of him was enough to convince me that I should believe him even less than I believe you. Aliss Merivale is incapable of such conduct as you describe, absolutely incapable of it.” His blue eyes blazed. “In future, Airs. Dashwood, I think all our business had better be transacted through your solicitor. It is quite impossible for me to do business with you in person. I will not, if I can possibly help it, ever come into this house again.”

What-Millicent screamed after him, as he left the room, he did not know; he did riot even care. Anger made her incoherent, and he went away with the impression of leaving behind him a shrieking wild animal, beside herself with rage—a creature to inspire shame and disgust. From Dickson, the butler, lie obtained Judith’s address, and then, still seething with anger, he walked away. Almost instinctively llis steps led him toward Regent’s Park, and to the very seat where he. and Judith had talked on that never-to-be-forgotten day. He felt lie must have time to readjust his thoughts after the harassing interview with Millicent Dashwood, and the startling news she had given him. Before anything else he realised that lie could not think or plan clearly until llis fierce - indignation liad simmered down. He had come to town burning with a desire to see Judith at once, to put his fate to the test without delay. Spurred on by Sylvia Latlierly’s encouraging words, “Go in and win,” he had determined to act speedily on the advice of his incurable romantic. But what he had just heard from Millicent Dashwood had altered the trend of his ideas, while quickening liis determination to play the part of young Lochinvar promptly and decisively. Sitting there, looking across the rippling, sunlit water, he knew past all possibility of mistake that he loved Judith—loved her. and that he must go and tell her so at once.

He sprang suddenly’ to his feet, startling into wakefulness a somnolent old lady beside him. Going quickly out of the gate with the impetuosity of a boy, he hailed a taxi, and, jumping in, bade the man drive to the address Dickson had given him in a remote corner of the East End. What steps precisely he intended to take when he had reached his objective he did not formulate in his own mind. He only knew, with the utmost certainty, that he must go posthaste to 145 Mariston Street, look again into those grey eyes, listen to that soft voice, and somehow let Judith know that he loved her, and would take care of her against the I whole world. The glance he cast at 1-15 Mariston Street, E., the house of Dr. Hornby, was one of withering disparagement, and he looked with' disfavour at the whole grey and sordid street. No settings, as he felt, for Judith. The opening door behind him made him turn upon the threshold, to see a Judith who stared at him in mute amazement, the colour coming and going upon her face. Before either of them could speak, Airs. Hornby’s voice, shrill and imperious, made itself distinctly audible from the room to the right of the passage. “Whatever are you doing at the door, Miss Merivale? Who have you got there, chattering on the step? I’m not going to have any young men coming here after you. Understand that. You've plenty to do, without worrying your head about young men.” n Upon ray word, is that woman daring to talk in such a way to you?” Derek exclaimed, while Judith*s face became the colour of a peony. “Let me have a word with her. She has no business to take such a tone with you. Is she mad?” “Oh, please, Mr. Stanesley,” Judith implored. “Please don’t mind .” “But I do mind,” he interrupted, gently putting her on one side and striding into the passage. “I do mind, and I intend to put a stop to it. Good heavens, do you suppose I am going to allow anyone to speak to you like that?”

The authoritative and possessive tone was very comforting and Judith, looking up into his thin, brown face and angry blue eyes, not only knew that she was merely a child in his hands, but that she was very safe there, too, and that he was taking charge of affairs. All the time, from the room on the right Airs. Hornby’s voluble sentences poured out in an endless stream; a stream which so far had not been stemmed. “Aliss Merivale, did you hear what 1 said?” she called out. “I will not have any young man in this house and I don’t choose that they should come to the door. I haven’t ever allowed followers. Please understand that. And, just because you call yourself a lady, I am not going to make any exception in your favour. You are not to have young men calling here. You can see them oil your day out, if you want to see them at all. Please to send your friend away at once and come straight in.”

“Miss Merivale’s friend proposes to go away at once,” Derek’s deep voice struck upon her shrill volume of words, “and Aliss Merivale is leaving the house with him.” The words, the voice, the personality of the man reduced even ATrs. Hornby to silence, petrified silence, in which she stood staring at her unexpected visitor with open mouth and eyes. “I do not intend that Miss Merivale -should stay here a moment longer to be insulted,” Derek went on, his words cold and cutting. “She will leave with me at once.” “Oh, but indeed I can’t.” Judith came into the room behind him. “I am working for Mrs. Hornby, and I couldn’t possibly leave her in the lurch. It is very kind of you, Air. Stanesley, but I couldn’t ” “Oh yes, you could,” Mrs. Hornby had by this time recovered her equilibrium and the use of her tongue. There was fury in her eyes; her face was crimson; her words fell over one another in her anxiety to get them out at break-neck speed. “I don’t want you in my house a minute longer, you and your ‘not leave her in the lurch’ indeed. You needn’t talk with your young man coming interfering aud cheeking me. The impertinence of it! Are you my servant, or are you not?” “Certainly I am in your service. I came here as mother’s help; and I do not want to leave you in a hurry, or make things difficult.” “Not so much about a hurry and a difficulty, if you please. I believe I am still mistress in my own house, even though your visitor seems to

think he's got to order me about — the impudence!” •‘Mrs. Hornby,” Judith began again, only to be cut short by the infuriated woman: “Stop talking, for goodness sake, and don’t stand there, arguing with me. Tf you are my servant, and you sav you are, you can go, and go straight away. I give you notice this minute and you can pack off this minute. And as for you, by fine gentleman,” she turned on Derek like a tempestuous fury, “you’d better mind what you’re about, forcing your way into other people’s houses and using impudent language.” “Will you get your things, Miss Merivale?” Derek said quietly, entirely ignoring Mrs. Hornby and her stormy outburst. “I shall not leave the house without vou, and the sooner we go the better. I will wait for you in the passage.” "Yes, the sooner you go, the better,” Mrs. Hornby shrieked. “I don't want your sort down here. What with doctors who come interfering, and socalled ladies taking places and having their fancy men to see them, well, we shan’t know ourselves soon. I shall be thankful to see the back of you.” Pursued by continuous vituperations from the lady of the house, who went on like a wound-up top unable to stop, Derek heat a retreat to the passage, while Judith fled upstairs to pack. In a very few minutes she joined him, her suitcase in her hand, and Mrs. Hornby, coming to the sitting-room, hurled at her fresh vituperations. “Mrs. Hornby, T am so sorry you feel like this,” Judith said gently, “Mr. Stanesley is simply a friend who has come ” “Oh, I see, I see,” the other woman interrupted. “I quite grasp your mean ing without any explanations. You’re just like all the rest, never happy unless you have a man making love to you. It isn’t hard to understand why your young man has come here. 1 suppose you wrote and told him to call. You’ve cheek enough for anything; and I'm not sure I’m not surprised you had to leave your last place if this was your way of behaving,” and so on—and so on—until Derek was obliged to all intents and purposes to push Judith into the street, and shut the door between them and the excited lady. “Good Lord, what a shrew! And can no Petruchio be found to tame her?” he exclaimed with a short laugh.

“I can’t fancy her husband playing ' Petruchio,” Judith said, shakily. “But, j oh. Mr. Stanesley, I am so sorry, so : ashamed.” “Don't think about being either j ashamed or sorry. It is not your fault that the virago in there behaves like a panther let loose! Is this all your luggage?” He had taken the suitcase from her hand. “No, the rest of my belongings are stored in an empty room in the house where my friend, Alison Derwent, lives. But,” she stopped in the street and looked at him. “X can’t understand why you came, how you found me? It is so good of you to help me,” Her voice suddenly shook. The recent scene had tried her more than she knew. “I found out yott har left Mrs. Dashwood. X was calling there today, and heard you had come away. They gave me your address.” “X seem fated to be turned out of ; | people’s houses,” Judith broke in, j with rather an hysterical laugh- “No j doubt Mrs. Dashwood told you why I left.” Derek’s face grew very stern. “She said so much that she made 1 me see red,” was his reply. “I am afraid I let fly, I was so enraged. I have told her I will never go inside her house again.” “Oh!” Judith exclaimed, “but you ' shouldn’t. You mustn't. Why should you take tip the cudgels for me like that? After all I am scarcely more than a stranger.” “A stranger, are you?” he asked, with so significant a glance, that Judith’s face grew rosy. Her eyes no longer met his; "she began to talk hastily, and at random. “It is good of you to be interested -in me, and to have helped me just now with Mrs. Hornby. She has never i treated me like this before. I think her nerves are on edge, and she got rather upset.” i “Rather upset?” Derek laughed. - grimly. “She gave as good a repre- ■ sentation of a woman in a furious tem- > per as I ever saw. No Billingsgate [ fish-wife could have done it better! And I want to argue with you about > that expression you used, ‘a stranc ger.’ I decline to be called a stranger - after our talk in Regent's Park—a talk I have never forgotten.” His voice i dropped to a tenderness which shook ’ Judith’s pulses. “I look upon you as a friend.”

j “You are so good, so very kind, sue : said, confusedly. “But what am I ; going to do now? I am homeless! 1 i had better go round to Alison ant j consult her. She is always so wise ! She will be able to think of somc- ! thing for me to do. Perhaps she could put me up for a night.” “I am going to settle your future, was the superb response. “I have had A brain-wave. Will you trust your self to me. and let me explain to y ..i what my brain suggests?” Feeling too dazed to oppose him. drawn by some magic of his voice and j personality, Judith allowed herself to be helped into his taxi, still standing bv the kerb. Through the confusion of her thoughts she heard him order the man to drive to the Maunington Hotel, and she realised that they were driving quickly westwards. Her brain felt numb; her tongue paralysed. She felt as though—after the storm and : stress of the last hour—she had be- | come so slack and limp that she could j do nothing but acquiesce in whatever jhe suggested. It was such a relief to j he ordered about by somebody strong and self reliant, that she submitted, i Only when in the hall of the hotel she heard her escort ordering “a sit-ting-room and bedroom for the lady." did she become galvanised into life “Oh. but I can’t stay here. I can’t I afford,” she said to him under her i breath; only to meet a confident smile | and to have her remonstrances swept i aside with a superbly dominating ge«i ture which made her feel absurdly l youthful and incapable of managing i her affairs for herself any longer. j (To be continued Tomorrow.) ;