THE SILENT WIFE!

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 30, 8 October 1920, Page 2

THE SILENT WIFE!

By MARK ENGLISH.

A

CHAPTER IV. ENGAGED. "My dear Doris, your father tells me that you will favour my suit. I need hardly assure you that I am sensible of tho honour that you do me/' "Stop!" She tumed on him with a qiuck geature, an imperious gesture. "Let there be no mistakes between us, Mr Armer." "My name is Roger," he said. "1 called you Doris." "I am aware you did, you have purchased mei and therefore I suppose you are at liberty to call me what you like ; but to me you are Mr Armer." Just a little compression of the lips, and a bow. "Very well," he said. "I repeat, let there be no mistake between us. You say my father told you that I will favour your suit. My father, through some villainy of yours, I presume, has got into your power, and the only way of escape is for him to sacrifice his daughter. I have listened to his pleadings, and I have elected to pay the price. There is no question of accepting; I am helpless, and there is no question of you being lionoured. Let there be no mistakes and no mockery. I respected you as my father'g manager. I respect you no longer." - He smiled, he rather liked her for her candour. "Let met remind you, my dear Doris" — it seemed that he almost emphasised that word — "that all is fair in love and war. Because 1 loved you, and because 1 saw no other way of winning you, I have chosen th'is way." "Love!" she retorted. "Do not defame that holy word by speaking of it. Love would have died sooner than do a thing of this sort. Love would have suffered / anything rather than stoop so low. You | love ! You do not know what love means. j Now listen to me. Only yesterday a man j whom I loved asked me to he his wife, j and I eonsented. Since then I have had j to write to him and break off the en- j gagement. But make no mistake, Mr j Armer, my lo"Ve is not yours, and never will be yours. You may have secured the casket. but the gem which it contains is given to another. Do not say j that I am deceiving you. That is all that ( I wish to remark.^ And now, if you have 1 nothing to say to me, there is not the j .slightest reason why we should continue this conversation." ) He had come to the fireplace where j she was, he stood there leaning his elbow upon the mantel, contemplating her gravely. "Certainly I must thank you for your candour, Doris," he said; "but it does not influence me in the slightest. I was j not so foolish as to expect that there | could be any affection for me in your j heart — that will come by and by — in fact, ! we may fmd our wedded life will be all j the happier because we do not begin with J any romantic nonsense. Now, since you do not wish to be alone with me, by all means let us rejoin your father." "And, as far as possible," she said, "let ns avoid this subject. There is no need for anything to be said in reference to it — at any rate, between ourselves. I suppose, for common decency's sake, we must keq|i some sort of appearance before outsiderg. If you have any consideration at all, I would suggest that you leave me as free as possible." And he answered, with just the trace of a mocking smile, hy repeating her own words : "We must keep up some sort of appearance before outsiders." The engagement was announced. Perhaps some were surprised. They said that Doris Thobury might have looked higher. But those who looked upon her father as a man of wealth flattered and fawned, and offered their congratulations. What a life it was for her, but she schooled herself to go through with ft. People wondered at her aspect, she did not act her part, and Roger Armer did not care to act his. "Doris and I," so he said to some, "have advanced ideas. We do not believe in romantic exuberance of passlon, and we respect and admire each other all the more because of it. Stftl waters run deepest, you know." So he passed the thing off. "I should like you to come with me,

Doris," he said one day, it was only a week after that. "I want to show you the new home I have chosen for you. "It does not matter to me," she answered, "where we live, It is for you to choose. " Perhaps it is to his credit that he remaimed so absolutely patient. "Most women care to see the home they are to live in," he remonstrated. "A prisoner cares very little to see the prison in which she is to be confined," was her answer. "You are taking me to a prison. I look upon it ag notliing else. I have not" the slightest interest in what arrangements you make, Mr Armer." "Very well. I shall have to tax my ingenuity as best I can to see that I make your prison as comfortable as - possible for you." Was she doing right? The thought came to Doris as she sat alone. The words of Miss Daltey concerning duty came to her mind. She had taken this step, she had been coerced, but it was taken. It occurred to her as she sat alone that slie even owed some sort of duty to Roger Armer. She was to be his wife ; there was no question of love or affection, but the very fact that she was accepting that position entailed duties. Even in her misery and wretchedness Doris was a conscientious girl. Was she doing right to treat his snggestion that she should go and see her new home, and give her own orders, in such an an- j gracious fashion? Duty to her was no longer a sweet ' happy thing ; it was, indeed, a hard, ' thorny road, but it was the road : and convincing herself that she was wrong, | she sought- the first opportunity of put- i ting- it right, so when he called the next | day she said to him : "Roger" — it was the first tirne she had used his Christian name, and he started— j "I have been thinking of what you said." "Yes?" How coldly it was spoken. | "I will be pleased to come with you when you like to see our home." ' 'I am sorry, but I am busy at present ; ; I can make no appointment just now. ' j It was ungenerous of him. He might ; have known what it had cost her to 1 humble herself so much, and he met her advances in that way. Any yielding in Doris was cliecked : she was 'the coid, indifferent woman once more. "Oh, I am sorry," she answered. "Do not trouble yourself." And so the chance was allowed to pass. She had received no answer to her letter to Paul Weston, but sbe had had two letters from Miss Daltey : kindly letters. How her heart longed to go and see her old friend once more, to tell her of all her troubles, to ask her advice. ' She instinctive'ly realised that Miss Daltey was disappointed, and she felt that she would have to go and talk with her. The time was drawing close — terribly close ; how she shrank from it ! The near- 1 er it came, the more jovial and merry her father grew. They had a cllnner-party, It was a fortnight— only a fortnight before the wedding, and Roger Armer was staying as a guest in the house that night. How glad she was when it was all over ; how glad to creep away to her own room. . to throw herself on her knees and pray for strength to face the ordeal. The more she thought of it the more she dreaded it. Alas, it seemed as though prayer was unanswered now. She crept to bed at last, to fall into an uneasy sleep, from which she wa.s aroused | with a sudden start. What was the mat- ; ter? How hot the air seemed, she could hardly breathe, and what strange smell was this? A smell of burning! ghe opened her bedroom door, the corridor i wa6 full of smoke, and beyond the smoke ' was an ugly, sullen glow. ! She ran back to her room. Doris was no more deficient in courage than most people, but there is somethlng so dreadful fir©; the sm5ke seems to benumb the brain, a sense of helplessnese possesses the body. The house was on fire ! Her wintfow was too high for her to reach the ground, and as she cowered there the thought came that, perhaps this was an answer to her prayer. Perhaps this was HeavenA way to f reedom ; a ahort, dreadful, fierv way, but — a way. ho ^ was that? "Who was tEat who burst into her room ciying hoarsely ; "Doris! Doris, are you there?" She raised herself. It waa Roger Aim-

er. He caught her in his arms and, snatching the clothing from the bed, wrapped it round her. "Lie still," he said. "Don't be frightened, I'll sce you through." And then there came to her a sense of his strength, not only of body, but strength of spirit. When he set her down I she was in the open air. He himself was but half-dressed, and it seemed to her . that the fire had scorched his face, He turned quickly. "Take your young mistress away and see to her," he said to the servants; but she broke from them. | "My father!" she cried desperately. ; "Where is he? Is he safe?" "Your father? I forgot him." Just at that moment Wai ter Thobury appeared at a window above. Ihe was shrieking, gesticulating, begging for help, and she seized the man she was to marry by the arm. "Save him!" she cried. "Save my father!" He looked at her strangely^ there was a world of meaning in that look, then he turned and was gone. People stood shivering, gasping, and she knelt there, cow,ed with the horror of it. The face disappeared from the window, a belch of flame took its place, and .then— then Armer came out, staggering with his burden in his arms. Willing hands would have relieved him, but he pushed through them, lte carried his burden to where Doris was, and laid the swooning man oh the ground with something of an expression of contempt on his face. Then he turned to her. "I have done your bidding," he said. "I have gaved your father." An then she- — had she had tirne to think she would not have done it — but overcome with a burst of gratitude, realising that this man had risked his life ; realising, too, that she ancl her father both owed their lives to him, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. "Thank you, Roger, ' ghe said. He started back) there was a smiie, a cold smile, and then : "Oh, reallv, there is nothing to make an exhibition about. You had better go with the servants. I will see how this damage can be checked." She went. Oh, it would have been bet. ter if he had left her to perish in the fire, far better. Why did this man want i to bind her to him when he despised her so much? But she would he caTeful never to give .him- cause for contempt again. "And so that chance — the second chance— was -gone. Would another never come ? CHAPTER V. WEDDED. "I'll tell you what it is, Armer, you're marrying my daughter, but you're not getting a slave. Remember a father's feelings, sir." Those were the words which Doris heard ag she entered. Her father and her future husband were quarelling, and her father had been drinking ; she knew it. ."You're not buying a horse or a dog. It s my daughter, sir, and there's time enough yet to break the match off." "Is there?" was the answer. "You will fmd there will be time enough to ruin you, then. Don't you try anything of that sort, Mr Thobury." "Oh, I — I — ■" How quickly the man knuckled under — " I didn't mean that exactly. But you don't understand the girl. Of course, she doesn't care for you, she's got a proud spirit." Pray do not interfere in those matters, Mr Thobury." How contemptuously he spoke. Believe me, after to-morrow Doris will be my wife, and I will find means to curb that self-same proud spirit. You have no need to feel any anxiety upon that score, 1 — " He stopped, and for once he looked confused as Doris walked in. I am sorry I have overheard your con. versation," she said; and that was all. Then she went to her room to sit down ( to— Heaven help her!— to do what? It I seemed as though she could not even pray j now. And this was the - way in which j her future husband looked upon her. He | would break her spirit. He should not! | She would meet spirit with spirit. Roger j Armer ghould find that he had not got i the best of the bargain after all.

I Hers was a weary sleep that ' """ hers a bitter awakening. "h"' ' ^ maidens awake with iov 'and Tj ^ greet their are m their hearts, but what „ °pt8 | in hers? Had they aroused her? ^ her to prepare for execution Wl | not have felt more solemn, m'ore ' ?ld There were so many frfends 9°B! crowd, such a wine drinking, su^8" 8 ping of champagne corks, £uch Then atlart Ae found her..H j her father, drivmg to the chureh \ tried to be so jovial. 6 | "My dear girl," he said, "I ,hal1 „ forget what you have done to heln ^ and I am sure that your filia! dut? ®!j be crowned with hAppiness." It pleased him to talk in that way it ministered £o his vanity; but she sat ' . ent and made no answer. vShe wa3 a8o in a dr,eam. Was this the church' flJ they there so soon? MechanicaU, ^ passed in, treading on the thick oarnA that had been laid down. She was con. scious, in a vague way, 0f hundreds and hundreds of faces staririg at her and she thought, so they must have stared i the arena of old in ancient Rome. as they watched the victima go' to their death, The bride, with a face white as the veil which covers her, as white as the spotless blossoms of her bouquet, a bride who, as one in a dream, passea Into the church on her father's' arm, while the j bridesmaids fall in two and two behind, ! the youngest bearing her train. | A hum of admiration, etuiles every. i where. "Om- dear Dorig looks beautifaL but our dear Doris certainly does not look over-well. Perhaps it is the excitement, or it may- be natural nervousness/' although most people did not think that "dear Doris" was of a nervous dispoei- ; tion. The gentlemen especially say to themselves that "dear Doris" was wortby of a better bridegroom than Roger Armer, He goes forward to meet her, her father relinquishes his place, and so they stand, man and woman, before ihe altar-rail, and the church becomes siient as the vicar commences the service. "Dearly beloved, we are mct here before God and this congregatiou to join this man and woman togetTier in holy matrimony." And so the service goes on nntil it comes to the words, "To love, to honour, and obey." A pause. To love, to honour, and obey! Can she — can she say those words! Their meaning burst upon her all in a moment, Facing her, in the centre oi the greab stairned window over the high altar, vai the representation of the Saviour, and underneath a scroll bearing ihe words, "I am tho Way, the Truth. and tb# Life." The truth ! Could she say i'10se wor^s' The bridesmaids were startled, on* v/hispered to another that "dear Doris looked as though she was going to f»int Her father looked concerned ; the bri 6groom, st,em and cairn, watched hei in- | tently. "To love, to honour, and obey/ ™ vicar repeated in low tones. It was impossible, it was. horrible, i was a mockery. It seemed , to her though something snapped in her r i and she gasped out : "I cannot say that!" They heard it, the vicar heard it, J bridesmaids heard it, her father hear friends clustering round and s™ J heard it. What did the bride «ie Had she gone mad? They looked at . other in amazement. ,g "My dear Doris," Prote? ^ father; but she paid no attention ^ "The words of the service must ^ peated," said the vicar gravely. ^ not continue unless you answei "Doris!" said her father again' theatrical whisper. . f6aj, People were standing up in 1 eir now, an electric thrill ran fe. great congregatiou. The bri e fused to go on with the se tuce- ^ heard of such a thing? Loc ^ vory busy with their penciis. ^ something that would make » ^ story indeed. The bridegr'^"1 were indignant. Was the gir " And then the bridegroom «P° 1 ^ "Are you going to say Doris?" , It was asked in a ^oW answered : "I cannot!"

He did not ask again, he tumed and walked into the vestry, merely observing to the vicar : "You had better tell these people there will be no wedding ." It was a breakdown ! People who had been laughing and smiling stood as though they were stunned. Then the vicar stepped forward. "I- regret to say that the wedding ceremony will not take place," he said, "There is nothing for the congregation to stay for." The good old gentleman hoped that it might take place, he would reason with the brlde, but h© had better get rid of these people. He hated anything like a scene or a scandal in his church. They took her into the vestry, and there the vicar joined them. She put her hands in her forhead and looked around in a dazed way. What had she done? What awful thing was this? What scandal had sh© made? She looked at the man who was to have been her husband— he was standing there cold and stepn, She looked at the bridesmaids — they regarded her with mingled dismay and contempt. She looked at the friends — they stared at her as though she was some strange animal. She looked at her father —his face was pale with anger, he had torn off his gloves and was twisting them in his hands. What had she done? "Now, my dear young lady," the vicar bvsgan ; but she stopped him, "Oh, I am sorry, I am so sorry!" she gasped. "I don't know what was the matter with me. Roger, forgive me, I — There was no yielding on his part. "I am afraid that your daughter is ill, sir," said the vicar to Walter Thobury. "Overwrougnt. Perhaps if she was to go home, tomorrow — "To-morrow?" interrupted the bridegroom. "There will be no wedding tomorrow." The vicar was really distressed. The bride had buried her face in her hands and was sobbing. What did it mean? What could it mean? No otie there had any idea that she was an unwilling bride. — that Walter Thobury, the rich man, should give his daughter to. someone to whom she was not willing to go was a thing they never dreamt of. She went up to Armer. "Roger, I am so sorry." No relaxing in that hard face of his "Won't you forgive me? Cannot you understand how terrible it is for me to say those words? But I will try to mean them. I will pray for strength to be faithful to that vow. I am sorry." There was such a world of desperate entreaty in her tones, such a sortrow for what had taken place, such self-abasement and yet he was unmoved. "You have made an absurd exhibition of yourself," he retorted in equally low tones. "It i3 simply part of a formal service. Is this your revenge?" "No, no!" she pleaded. "I did not think of such a thing. Cannot you see how sorry I am ? Let us go back ; let the -service go on." The vicar looked at the bridegroom ; he shrugged his shoulders and walked back- into the church — an empty church now — with not one of the smiling facea left. Once more they stood there, brides maidg indignant, friends angry or sneering, the unhappy bride realising the enormity of what she hctd done, and so the service was continued. How their voices seemed to echo ! How hollow it sounded ! To love, to honour, to obey. She lifted her eyes towards the window, she looked at the Way, the Truth; the Lif.e, and so looking, she made that vow, and Doris Thobury became Doris Armer. Something was wrong in the church. • The crowd without pushed and tiptoed and stared when. at last the doors were opened. Here they were. They were coming out now. She trembled as she caught sight of that dense crowd, she held tighDy to her husband's arm, feeling that otherwise she would fall. A oig crowd -but a silent one ; rio laughter, no cheers, rio showering conf.etti or rice( no good wishes uftered. A silent crowd through which she passed to the car, where the best man, trying hard to appear unconcerned, stood at the open door. Her husband handed her m in siLence, in silence they drove off through the throng that stared so curiously at her. "Well, Doris,"— how coldly TE was said — "I have to thank you for this humiliation. You have succeeded very well. ' And he smiled grimly — almost threatening. "Ah, well, you are mine now, and I am you master— a master you will soon learn to obey, or I'H know the reason why." He suddenly leaned out of the window and spoke to the chauffeur, and as he sat back again remarked : "Affer your exhibition, a reception would be a faroe, and I've ordered the man to drive straight to our house. I've had enough of public ignominy for one day."

She shuddered at the cold merciless tone oi his voice, and shrank back into her corneir as far as she could. So they drove on in awful silence until the car turned in at a pair of big sombre iron gates, "Here we are," said Roger grimly. "Our home — yours and mine. But I'm its master, remember that. I'll soon teach you obedience once you are inside those walls." What will happen to Doris now? To keep her wretched bargain, his home must be hers, but will he master her spirit? Next week's instalment answers this, and contains some startling revelations.