LOVE SET FREE

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1054, 19 August 1930, Page 5

LOVE SET FREE

COPYRIGHT PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

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L. G. MOBERLY

Anther of 'Clmnsing Firoo.” ** In Apple Blossom Tims,” "Threads of Life," etc.

CHAPTER XIX (Continued) until they were alone in the aitting-room; orders given for dinner, and she herself ensconced in an armchair, did Derek condescend to explain himself. Judith had an odd sensation of having no idea whatever, whether she was standing on her head or her heels, uncertain whether she was awake or dreaming. She dimly wondered whether presently she would awake in her dull little bedroom at the Hornsby's’ house, with the prospect of a long day’s work ahefld of her; it seemed impossible that the hotel, the dinner, the pleasant casual conversation, could any of them be real. They all seemed to be figments of a dream; and yet at the same time she was wrapped about with a delicious sense of security and peace, a sense that she was in strong hands which would keep her safe.

Diuner and coffee had been cleared away. While the waiter had been coming in and out of the room Derek had kept up a pleasant patter of talk on every conceivable subject. But uow that they were aloue, he fell silent, standing with his back against the mantelpiece, surveying her with a disconcerting smile, and an expression in his eyes w£ich made her heart beat very hard and fast. When at last he spoke there was again a note of tenderness in his voice which brought a ridiculous lump to her throat. "The brain-wave came quite suddenly,” he said, as though merely continuing a conversation, although it was at least two hours since he made the first remark. “But It is so obvi°usly an inspired brain-wave that we must act upou it. and act quickly.” "Must we?”

“We must. Ever since our talk in kegent’s Park you have haunted me persistently. 1 simply couldn’t get away from the thought of j t ou, and your grey eyes, and your gentle voice.” Judith’s heart gave a great leap, and the eyes that had been watching his face watched it no longer. “Before I found you had been driven away from Mrs. Dashwood’s I guessed what was the matter with me, I had made up my nund to come and carry you off. willyndly! And when Mrs. Dashwood told me what had happened to you I was more determined than ever, and more than ever in love with you.” Judith flushed deliciously. “But w hen I saw you in that terrible Roman's house in the East End I anew I was*not going to wait another mi nute. I wasn’t going to do any orthodox wooing and w'aiting. No, Jhust hear me out before you say anyhmg. My brain-w*ave has shown me * So Jution of all your difficulties. We aa be married as soon as 1 can get a Decial licence, and you will come own to Kingsden Manor and live hapPuy ever after!” j “hdith was on her feet. The cushtneJJ arm-chair was abandoned; she up on the hearth-rug facing erek. The colour was coming and go--011 her face, her eyes were very soft and shining. , y°u don’t—l can’t—you are just > 07 for me, and you think this is a tiimK? Ut °* difficulties.” Her words moled over one another. She spoke tj, r ® ever at random; while all soni? 111 e thought of his words was uni thrills up and down her lit es ’ and making her heart hammer ,f a steam engine. th — w hat? And you can’t— Art responded, answering her .ft confused wrords, his own eyes as as hers. “Perhaps I’ve taken littl sur P rise ; y°u have seen so g® °* you ma y think I am mad. has v * sn t the length of time one ia t . known a person that matters. It thi* 6 am °unt of feeliug one has for jj Person, which really counts. What *hi fe* ° r you is a conc entrated essence BW c f Vuld squeeze Itself into a very “hi } erm °* acquaintanceship.” sa^ U \ really — anc * 1 m sure y ou are cau<» * a ll out of pity for me, bet* two rather horrid women have Sickly me hadly,” Judith said of *?’ 1 aiR n °t saying anything out * am not 80 altruistic as you “Utly suppose. I don’t pity you a

[ bit. I am very glad those two fiends ! treated you so badly. It has given me my chance and brought things to a j head. We might have gone dithering | on indefinitely for goodness knows i how long if all this had not happened. As it is we can settle the whole thing I out of hand, straight away.” “Oh, but we can't!’’ Judith remonstrated. “1 couldn’t let you. Besides, you are talking nonsense, are you not? You can’t really mean all you say.” “I am not talking nonsense: I am ; talking the divinest sense.” He took I her hands, and drew her very gently j toward him. “As a matter of solid and ! simple fact, I suppose I fell in love I with you at first sight,” he said, putj ting a hand under her chin, and lifting her face very gently'. “I don’t know whether I did the deed on that first day when 1 so nearly knocked you down on the doorstep. But the next time or two I saw you in Mrs. Dashwood’s drawing room you seemed to fix yourself in my' memory. And after that day' in Regent’s Park y*ou haunted me without ceasing.” “Did I?” she said softly. “That talk helped me. It gave me heart.” “On that day I quite certainly' and surely fell in love with you straight off,” his arm drew her still nearer, “and from that day onward you have seemed to weave yourself more and more inextricably into my life; I couldn’t get away from you. That’s the truth. I couldn’t get away' from you! Now my brain-wave tells me that we had much better be married at once, without any delay'—if you think y'ou could bring y r ourself to marry' me at all. If you can’t do it j straight away, will you marry me some day?”

At that moment, and in a revealing fiash, Judith saw her own heart. All at once, with a sureness she could not doubt, she realised that this man’s image had been stamped upon it ever since the day of which he had reminded her, the day when he had nearly fallen over her on the doorstep! She knew that the talk in Regent’s Park had been an unforgettable memory, an unforgettable joy, and, with blinding illumination she realised. <hat to allow him to take her and her life into his keeping would be an unspeakable relief and delight. “I,” she began, and paused, while again he held her face softly tilted toward his, and looked deep into her ey'es with a smile which seemed like a benediction. “I—oh, I don’t knowhow' to say it properly. But I don’t think I w'ant it to be some day, I want it to be —straight away,” she exclaimed with a little gasp, as Derek’s face bent toward hers and their lips met. A letter reached Alison Derwent on the following day, a letter over which she chuckled contentedly. Mornington Hotel. You will think I am only fit for Colney Hatch, but something very wonderful has happened. You will remember that I mentioned Derek Stanesley to you—a very old friend of Dr. Dashwood’s and one of Mrs. Dash wood's trustees? He and I met there, and he was very kind to me. Yesterday he came to see me at the Hornbys’ and Mrs. Hornby made a terrible to-do! What I am going to tell you now will sound like a scene in a play, but he simply swept me right off, and brought me here. He insisted on giving me a sitting-room and bedroom for tonight, although I don’t know how he can do it, when he is only a farmer—at least Mrs. Dashwood talked of his derelict farm. However, he made me stay here, and—he has asked me to marry him. And, oh, my, dear, don’t think I have taken leave of my senses—but we are to be married by special licence. Derek is staying at his club nearby and is making all arrangements. He says this is the simplest plan, as I have no home: and I just feel as if I were walking on air, and bathed all round in the “light that never was on sea or land.” He is so good to*

me, so blessedly good; and the doors of Paradise are opened wide before my eyes. Can you corn© to our wedding. It is to be at St. Mary’s, Reuley Street, tomorrow at 12 noon, and to have y’ou with me would be perfect. Yours ever, Judith Merivale. CHAPTER XX. TEMPTATION. j It had come to that! He could no longer hide the truth from himself. It must be met and faced. “Dr. John” stood silently by his window, looking out across the river, which on this dark and dismal day was no longer a silver shield in the sunlight, hut a grey stream flowing sullenly to the sea. To shirk issues j or to shrink front going up to his guns I had never been characteristic of him, j but he knew now that he was face to I face with the most difficult issue he ' had ever been called upon to confront; that the guns up to which he i was now bound to go were no toy weapons, but deadly realities which ! could deal death and destruction. I On that very evening when for his old friend Derek Stanesley and Judith Merivale, the gates of their paradise were being flung open. Francis Dashwood’s eyes looked longingly toward a forbidden paradise into whose gates he might not enter. With all the longings of a man whose longings had been continually thwarted and suppressed, he yearned to push open those gates and pass beyond them into peace and jo3', and his better self told him that his yearnings might not be satisfied. He dared not open the gates of his paradise. He scarcely dared to think that the gates were there, and yet he saw them. He knew that, with a word, they would swing back for him, and he might enter into a happiness the very thought of which nearly dazzled him. The whole situation which had now arisen had come about as such situations do —by slow and imperceptible Agrees. He had not realised whither his steps were taking him until he found himself upon the brink of a precipice. Or was it not really a precipice, hut did he stand before the gates of Paradise, and was he a fool not to push them open, but to turn away unsatisfied. In his work among these dreary streets and alleys, in his constant ungrudging labours, Alison Derwent had been his right hand, his most faithful helper. It had all happened naturally, almost inevitably. Already established in the district for three years or more, she had been able to give him priceless information about patients. He ha.d found her knowledge of the network of alleys and tiny streets, and the rabbit warrens of tenement dwellings, invaluable. Her nursing capacity was of such an order that, from a professional standpoint., she had become almost a necessity to him. Pie had learnt to rely upon her intuition, to trust her judgment, to look to her for shrewd advice. But, above all, the man in him had bowed down to her gracious womanliness. That was the crux of the whole matter! He might safely have continued to work with her as a nurse of outstanding cleverness; their relations as doctor and nurse could have gone on indefinitely and with perfect propriety, if he had not realised that the woman in her was making a fatal appeal to the man in him. The realisation of this last truth had only just come to him. It had come with an overwhelming certainty which hp could not deny. He had left her at a case only an hour before, and now, in the solitude of his own room he was at grips with the truth. Alison Derwent filled his heart, and he" was not free! Alison Derwent had -come to mean all the woi'Ul to him, and he was bound to another woman. In taking a way of escape which the Bramstone fire had seemed so providentially to open out to him, he had never foreseen such a possibility as this. He had thought he couid drop out of Millicent's life without hurting a living soul. But now he loved Alison Derwent, and Millicent was still his wife. He was tied to her by the laws of God and man. He had never really shaken himself free of his shackles at all. Alison’s face came between him and the grey river, between him and the red-sailed barge that swung downstream. Alison’s face looked at him from the grey sky. Alison's eyes, blue and very steadfast, seemed to be looking into his eyes, looking into his very soul. Alison’s smile— He thrust the thought from him with a sort of horrified dismay. He must not let this picture fill his mind. He must not allow himself to dream im-

possible dreams; to see visions of a joy that for him lay beyond all chance of attainment! Ho had no right, no ghost of a right, to allow himself to think these things. Alison always at his side; Alison with her eager interest in all his studies and schemes; Alison at his right hand. The very thought set his pulses athrob. And lie must not let himself go. He must not. lie and she, in the little cottage by the river, living down here among the people they' both loved, doing the work they loved. What, might, they not

achieve, he and she? What happiness they' would find together! What happiness they could carry to others if only' he and Alison could join their lives and work in the little house by the river as man and wife. And at that moment the tempter awoke and spoke with no uncertain voice.

After all, what prevented him from taking advantage of the strange position into which he had in the first place been put. by' Fate? It was not by his own volition that the world in general had supposed him to be dead. The news of his death had gone out to the world before he himself was aware of the mistake that had been made. He had practised no deliberate deceit! It bad never entered his head to try' to disappear or to allow men to think he was dead, until he saw his own name staring up at him from the page of the newspaper, his own name as one of the victims of the fire!

The memory of the room in that house at Bramstone flashed before him. He saw its clean and tidy whiteness, the jumble of oddly' as-

sorted texts upon the walls, the heavy mahogany' furniture. He could even smell the close, fusty smell that hangs about a room whose windows are rarely opened. He could see the face of his hostess as she talked in awed accents of the theatre fire, and of those who had lost their lives. And then she had given him the paper, and his own name stared up at him —Dr. Dashwood. There had been an obituary notice, with panegyrics about his work, and the loss he would be to science. He had not brought it all about —this supposed death. It had given him welcome way of escape, and he had taken that way.

He had given up his identity', the tempter’s voice went glibly' on. He was no longer Francis Dashwood. He had ceased to be Millicent’s husband on the day of the Bramstone lire—on the day when she, and all the world, supposed he had been burnt. To %U intents and purposes he was dead — dead to the old world in which he had lived and moved, and had his being, dead to the friends who had belonged to that world, dead to his wife. Surely' that was true. Was he dead to his wife? Millicent believed herself to be a widow. Millicent had thankfully accepted the freedom he had given her. She had told him nothing would persuade her to marry again if died. Therefore, without a doubt she would cling to her freedom. She was living happily and comfortably upon the money he bad left her. He had left her a very rich woman. She had no grievance against him on that score. She had a house, money', all that her heart could wish, and she had got rid of a husband she did not want.”

She would never know, she neexl never know, that her husband after all did not lie buried in Bramstone. Why should she ever know the truth? That truth need never come out. He was dead to his old world, his old life. Bet him stay dead! Surely he had a right to live his own life now as he chose. He could mould his existence in whatever way he wished. He was John Smith now—plain John Smith, Dr. John, as some called him, or simply “Doc.,” as he was affectionately addressed by others. As John Smith he had a right to do what he chose. He chose to let Francis Dashwood lie buried for ever, forgotten, while John Smith reigned in his stead.

He looked round his simply furnished room, the room which nevertheless held such charm of its own. The restfulness of it charmed his troubled soul at this moment of troubled questioning and he found himself visualising Alison as its regular occupant.. Alison here, as his wife. His heartbeats quic'kened. More than once he had brought her up to this sitting-room, to look at some special book, or to talk over some special case; always she had seemed to belong to it. She had seemed to fit into it in some very peculiar and special way. The serene atmosphere which belonged to Alison .had interpenetrated the no less serene atmosphere of the room. The two had seemed to belong to one another. “When you come to think of it,” the tempter argued, “it would all be simple enough. No one in this part

| of the world (excepting Simon Hornby, | in whom he had confided and who would certainly hold his tongue) need ever know that he had not always | been plain John Smith. Francis Dashj wood was dead. He bad died in the Bramstone tire and been safely buried. The dead need not arise to look the living in the face again. Let Francis Dashwood stay quietly in his grave. No one need ever know the truth!” “Because of what he did —and was, I felt I had seen the highest. To me, as to his friend, Derek Stanesley, he has been a kindling inspiration.” The words came to his memory' with a clearness, so startling that it almost seemed to him he actually heard them. Judith Merivale’s voice, soft but vibrating, was in his ears: Judith’s face, lit up by her remembrance of Francis Dashwood, the man who, as she thought, had given his life for her flashed before his mind. “A kindling inspiration!' She had called him that. She had actually said that to her, as to Derek, he was “a kindling inspiration.” What sort of inspiration would he be to them, or to anybody', if he snatched at his own happiness at the cost of honour? “Honour?” The tempter’s voice grew mocking. “Where was honour involved?”

John Smith was just John Smith. There was no past behind him. He would not build up a past now. His life began on the day when he began to live in Riverside Cottage. There was no past, behind him. The past had been swept away': he was free, free as air. He could marry the woman he loVed; he could live the life he had chosen; wipe a sponge over all that had gone before, and begin again. There was no past behind him. “A kindling inspiration.” Because of what he did, and was, “I

felt. I had seen the highest.” He put out his hand and gripped at the window-ledge. “Lead us not into temptation,” he said. “Lead us not into temptation.”

A tap on the door brought him back to a realisation of common life, and its ordinary doings, but when, at his “Come in,” Alison herself entered, his hand tightened its grip upon the window-ledge. “Beil told me you were at home, and that I might come up,” she said, wondering a little at the tenseness of his attitude. “Old Mr. Chard is better; I don’t t.hiuk you need bother to go and see him tonight, and I wanted to give you the report about Lydia Dalton; I don’t feel happy about her.” Dashwood looked at her for a moment:. There was a dazed appeal in his eyes which puzzled her. Then he said quickly: “Never mind about Ly'dia Dalton for a minute; I want to ask you a question.” She had shut the door behind her, and was standing beside the writingtable, still puzzled by the expression of his eyes, when he said abruptly: “Do you think a man can ever so absolutely shake off his past as to be able to start afresh, as if he were a new person?”

“That depends upon which obligations the past has laid upon him, doesn’t it?” she said. “Nobody can shake off the legacies the past may' have given to the present.” “Take an imaginary case. Supposr ing a man was given out to be dead, and from various reasons was glad to cast the slough of his old life, and begin afresh—altogether afresh. Supposing he began life in a different place, with a new name, putting the past completely behind him, could he not shake off the past completely, as an old skin is sloughed off? Couldn’t he start afresh?” Alison shook her head. “Not if there was anything in his past which ought not rightly to be shaken off,” she said decidedly. “If y'our problematical man had ties or duties, or anything that held him, he would have no right to shirk them by starting afresh, as he pleases to call it. The old ties are like little chains w'hich link his past and present.” She looked at the doctor with clear, uncompromising eyes, and her mouth was firmlyset. “You know that as well as I do,” she added suddenly'. “You know' one can’t fling aside responsibilities of the past, and make a new present at will. You know that.” “Do I? I wonder! And if my prob-

lematical man, as you call him, had lived through hell in his past, can’t he break free from it and start again? Can’t he leave his hell eternally behind him?”

“Doesn’t it depend on whether he is neglecting duties or obligations by breaking free? ‘No man liveth unto himself’ —isn’t that a true saying? No man does live to himself, does he?” Her voice was very firm, though very gentle: it was as uncompromising as the steady look in her eyes. “You’ve come in on me fighting my own particular devil,” he said, ‘ and I don’t know which of us has won, he — or I?”

"Why, of course, you have won,” she said with quiet conviction. “You ha.ve come out on the top. There can be no doubt about that.” “Can’t there? Have I come out on the top? I don’t know.” “But I know,” she answered quickly. “You have come out on the top. Y'ou have come there, and you will stay there!” In her voice was a triumphant note, her eyes held triumph, too, triumphant trust in another human being. “Perhaps,” he came to sudden resolution, “perhaps you will think I have been wrong all through. 1 took seemed to be a way out, perhaps you will tell me I ought never to have taken it.” “Tell me.” She only said the two words, but a world of sympathetic understanding lay behind them, and the man before her spoke. “My life was hell. I am not exaggerating when I use those words. A queer chain of circumstances made it appear that I was dead. My death was announced; there seemed to be no reason why anyone should doubt that

it had really happened. And —all the time I was alive! It seemed to me to be a way of escape from an existence that had been misery to me; and equal misery to my wife. It seemed to be a wonderful way out.” “Y'our wife!”

“My wife, yes. I had a wife in that past existence; and our life together had become intolerable. She practically told me she longed to be rid of me. She has all she wants —a big house, plenty of money—all T could leave I have left her, and 1 am supposed to have died. I am free.” “Not free,” came the quiet answer. “You can’t be free while your wife is there; and you can’t slide away from all your duties and responsibilities to her.”

Alison’s voice shook; a new look had come into her eyes, a look of pain, and that look made “Dr. John” exclaim suddenly: “I haven’t hurt you, have I?”

“Hurt me?” the question was uttered with gentle dignity. “Why should you have hurt me?” “Because I love you,” he hurst out with startling vehemence, “and your eyes—made me think—l had hurt you,” he ended on an almost shamefaced note.

“There is only one straight way for us both.” she said, and though her colour deepened, her eyes were steady. “Y'ou must not try to break away from a past which holds responsibili ties. You must make up your mind to take up your responsibilities again -—and I must help you to do it. There is no other way!” A CATASTROPHE

“My dear lady, why not? Surely you need not turn me down quite so

emphatically. Why should you no' marry me?”

“Because I never mean to mam again. I am enjoying single blessed ness: I like my independence. I have no wish to tie myself up to a man any more. When Francis died I mad up my mind I would never marry again.”

“Surely that was a rash vow?” Hor ace Robertson’s voice was very soft, he contrived to throw a great deal of admiration into his glance at Millicent. “Y'ou shall enjoy yourself quite as much if you marry me as if you remain independent. I don’t want to hamper you. I won’t interfere with your plans and arrangements. You shaU go your own way as much as you choose. Isn’t that the recognised thing for wives of today? But you need a man to take care of you, my dear. You need a protector; and you know I am wild about you.”

“Are you?” Milicent laughed rather shrilly. “Ah! but. Horace, what abouthat girl—that Merivale girl? 1 thought you had rather a fancy for her at one time. I know she flung herseif at you, but you must admit you like i her, too!”

“For goodness sake don’t remind m of her,” Horace Robertson answered irirtably. “I admit nothing so riu : culous. She gave me a very bad quarter of an hour in this very drawing room —a very bad quarter of an hour! Let her sink into oblivion. I don’t care for an exuberant young woman of that type. It is you I care about, you I want. Why won’t you marry me, Millicent? After all, we are excellent pals.”

(To be continued Tomorrow.)