THE SILENT WIFE!

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 34, 5 November 1920, Page 2

THE SILENT WIFE!

By MARK ENGLISH.

A

THE FIRST PART. Doris Thobury, the sister of the childrens's ward, was telling the little ones stories, when the door opened and the matron and Dr Weston came in. Doris's cheekg took a deep tint, for she loved the kindly, grave-faced young doctor deeply. As the doctor went his xounds, she held each little patient's hand, for the pain never seemed so bad when Sister Doris ( was near; and when all the patients had. been examined her duty for the day was over. As she was going out of the Cottage Hospital gate, Paul Weston overtook her. "May I accompany you?" he asked, amd she smiled and nodded. They spoke of many things, and at last when they had reached a more gecluded spot the doctor seized her hand. "Miss Thobury," he said, "I love yon — I love you with; all my heart and soul. Will you be my wife?" She looked at mm steadfastly as she answered "Yes.'' It was some time later when they parted^ and when they did so Doris was the happiest girl in the world. The next morning she received a.telegram : "Come homo immediately," it ran. "You are wanted at once." And a little later she was speeding towards her home. At the very moment she was answering Paul Weston on the previous night, an interview was going on which was to alter her whole life. "Those are my terms; take them or leave them. Accept them and I pull you through; refuse and you are ruined!" The speaker, Roger, Armer, was a strong, hard man ; he was Walter Thobury's "manager, . and the man he faced as he uttered those words was Walter Thobury himself. Doris's father was a failure ; he was weak and lazy, and as he faced his manager he looked frightcned. His uncle had died and left him the huge business of Thobury and Co. But he did not trouble himself about the business; he left it all in the hands of Roger Armer. And now he found that he was on the brink of ruin, and only Armer could pull him through, and that he would only do so on one condition, and that was that he should marry Doris. And in his weakness and fear of ruin the crushed man agreed — actually agreed to sacrfSce his daughter to save himself. When he told Doris she was horrified. "Father," she cried, "you are not in earnest. Marry Mr Armer? I couldn't. You can't mean it." At last she cast aside all her hopes for the fut'ure and promised. That evening she wrote a short note to Paul Weston telling him she had changed her mind and could never be his wife. Her engagement to Armer was announced, and eventually Doris Thobury became Doris Armer. She found her husband domineering, and determined to break her proud spirit. "She discovered, too, that she had been won by a trick, for her father's business had never been anything but perfectly solvent. Doris invites Paul Weston, the young doctor to whom she. had been engaged, to. dinner. When he comes, Roger insults him in front of the other guests, and orders him from the house. In sudden anger, Doris tells him she will never open her lips to him again. "BOUGHT AND PAID FOR." "This unnatural condition of affairs could not go on without a break." This was what Roger thought; but it seemed a3 though it would ! Doris would not speak. H,e, in turn, grew to be silent too, though alwavs watching her with furtive suspicion. Only when guests were. pres&nt — and they grew fewer and fewer, except Isobel Tane, who seemed alwavs at hand— was there any relief from the strain that had now reached breaking-point. In these days Doris walked a greal deal. Or, if she did not walk, she rode, and always chose The Demon as her mount. Perhaps she felt sympathy with the horse her husband had schooled into obedience. Be that as it may, she and' the beautiful animal were on excellent terms with one another. One day, during one of her lonely, medancholy rides, she came across Paul Wes-

ton. He, too, was riding, and by one acqprd they stopped. Paul Vvas horrified to see the ravages Doris's unnatural life had made in the girl he had once loved and hoped to make .his wife. He had heard rumours of her strange silence — for Isobel had been careful to set go'ssip going — but that it had reached the pitch it had he would not have believed unless he had heard it from her own lips. "I'm glad I've met you, Paul," she said, in the frozen tones that had replaeed her low, rich ones. "I want to tell you it was all my fault — that night. My — husband did tell me to — to write and say he would not receive you — and I disobeyed him. I ' had no right to do that, had I, Paul? A wife like me must always be obedient to the man who has bought her — at a price." Paul's face grew grave and troubled. "Don't give it another thought," he told her. He admired her immensely for her cour. age in telling him the facts. He would have given mueh to know what truth there was in the rumours he had heard. He was snon to know ! "From that night to this I have never opened my lips to Roger Armer," she said abruptly — stooping down to pat The Demon's sleek neck, so that he could not see that frozen look upon her face. But Paul Weston's keen eyes did see it, and his heart ached for the girl who had been so bright and helpful in the little Cottage Hospital, cheering the suffenng — a very angel of the wards. How did it come to pass, this ill-matched union ? There was something very wrong somewhere. "You heard me say I would not speak?" "Yes, I heard you. But I — I did not believe it possible that you really meant it." "Yes— I meant it." Paul touched the hand that lay upon the horse's neck. "Doris — such things work madness in the brain. Let me entreat you to let by. gones ibe bygones. I'm sure your husband does not deserve so great a punishment. To me it would be insupportable." "To you — yes. Because you are good and kind, and understand that a woman is only fiesh and blood ; that a wife should be a comrade, and not a chattel bought and paid for. Roger is different. He is hard and cruel. Look at The Demon's sides! Those scars are the result of the cruel spurring my husband gave nim, across his fla-nks ,are the markg of his whip. He would like to serve me, his wife as he has his horse. Only one thing deters him — public opinion. Now you know the manner of man my vows on that day of horror and despair bound me to live with." Paul was speeehless with horror. "Doris, if you feel like this, leave him! It is better to go than to endure this , living death. It will kill you. Write to Miss Dalty. I'm sure she would be glad to have you back, you were always her favourite nurse." The girl shook her heao drearily. "It wouldn't be the .same. I am not the same. Something has gone from me j here."She Iaid her hand across her heart. Just then there came to their ears. the purring of a car in the disfanee. ■ The lane was narrow, the hors,es fidgety. Go now Paul. I'll think over wnat you say. I'll write to Miss Dalty. It may be I shall find rest in relieving the troubles of others. Only," she slghed deeply, "I'm not sure he'd let me stay. You see, he has bought me." Paul rode. quickly away, his mind full of forebodings. The car — a tradesman's delivery van rushed down the lane, almost grazing The Demon, who resented the liberty by rearing straight' up. Doris had all she. could do to keep her seat. Again he reared, and would hav® bolted had not a strong and powerful hand reached up and caught the terrihed animal by the curb, bringing him down with tremendous foree; and Doris, lookj ing down, saw the grim, determined face of her husband. "Get .down! I am going to give him a lesson — and you too!" Roger's face was deathly white. His teeth were set. Upon his handsome countenanca waa an expression that might

well have struck aw.e into the heart of the wife who defied him. -Had Rcger imagined that his words would have . drawn a retort from those sealed lips, he was mistaken. She sat her horse immovable. He reached out his hand, and lifted uer from the saddle as though she had been a featherweight. He placed her against a t-r.ee, and, taking her place in the saddle galloped The Demon out of sight. Doris put her hands befcre her eyes. For one brief moment she thought of speaking ; of entreat ing Roger to spare the horse, whose action had been the'outcome of fear. "No. I will keep my vow." She shud. dered, picturing what might be happening to her beloved Demon. She need not have feared. Could she have seen what was taking place a quarter of a mile off, it is just possible sne might have relented. Roger had dismounted, and with gentle hand was caressing the animal, who knew his master, and feared him far more than he had feared the snorting, noisy 'car. "Why should I punish you because you are afraid?" He stroked the velvet muz- ) zle. "It's only sheer rebellion I want to curb." . His face grew intensely melancholy, and then it hardened. "She has disobeyed me — defied me! She has met the one man of all others I have forbidden her to speak to. Let her take the consequences." He led The Demon back, and placing Dorig in the' saddle, led the horse homewards. "You have met Paul Weston," Roger said sternl^ "Be prepared to take a motor journey this evening. I am going to be master in my own house. Go to your rooms — now!" Slowly Doris Armer ascended the stairs, and when she reached her own rooms, locked6 the door. Then she sat down, and broke into the bitte-rest weeping that she had given way to since the day she had entered her proud home. What did it matter where he took her? One prison was as good as another — to Doris Armer. , THE LONELY HOUSE IN THE woods: "Send Mrs Armer's maid to me. Jenkins entered the study. Her master sat at the table, an expression on his face which the girl later on described as "making my hlood run cold." "I wish you to pack Mrs Armer's clothes. She is going away this evening." Now, as this was the first the servaits had heard of their mistress going visitmg — for so they supposed the order to mean — she naturally looked surprised. "Madam has not given any orders, sir," she ventured rashly. "I give you the order," He frowned. "Yes, sir, of course. Am I to go with madam?" "No." . "What amount of luggage shall I prepare, sir?" "As small an amount as possible, compatible with comfort. Pack plenty of warm clothes. No evening dresses. Where Mrs Armer is going— they do not wear evening-d'ress." The grimness on Armer's face was terrible. Roger had felt unable to bear the sdua. tion another hour. He had now decided on taking a step from which he had hitherto shrunk. He would isolate this silent wife of his, make her in reality the prisoner she believed herself to be. His complex nature was at war. Oue minute he hated her, the next she was He dearest thing on earth to'him. His long. ing to crush her to his breast at times was unbearable, at others he could have killed her. "Tell Mrs Armer I wish to see bt-r. Meanwhile, start packing. We leave in an hour." He sat brooding_ There came the ruslle of a woman's gown, and his silent wife stood before him, her slim white hands folded lightly in front of her. , . "Once more I ask you to speak," he said. Her lips folded more closely. "You don't intend to obey me?" Pt.ill no reply. "Very well. You will be readv to take a motor drive with me in an hour s time."

Doris turned and left theZT^3 i It was dark when the car Roger Armer, drew up at th " ^ to the Court. In the hall Her maid stood besidq her, he travelling bag in her hand ' mainder of the luggage Was aCJ the car. Mi' m Doris Armer came quieth ,i marble jteps. Her husbmd .p»a J' door of the car, and she got in Roger had half expected a'scene u there was none, nothing tal ' « silence, which he was determined to h ! at any co"st. tea* The car sped through the darhRoger at the wheel. Doris, inside back among the cushions, her eyes cl'0J her face mask-like and cold. 1 What did it matter to her where took her? A prison is a prison, no matta where it is situated. How long they had been travelling J did not know or care. She had sunh into an apathetic condition, when the sensei are lulled, the brain semi-dormant. From this half-conscious state she WM awakened by a violent jolt. The car seemed to.stand still for a momer.t, Then to her horror, it began to move swiitly forward, gathering speed at it went, ' Rising from her seat, Doris pied through the window. The fignre in the fur-coat was still at the wheel, hut that he had practically lost control over th powerful car was evident to the least experienced. As the full horror of the situation burst upon the girl she put her hands befora her face, and crouched back in her seat, A prayer that they might he saved broij from her pale lips, and, strange to say, her thoughts at that moment were more for Roger than herself. "Was it possible, '* — the thought llashed lightning-like, through her mind— "that she cared for this man who had m§ulhe4 and outraged her as Armer had dowel ll they met their end, it would he together, The frozen silence must he kokennow. Her hand went out to the window if front. It caught the strap. Herlipi opened. Her. hushamd's name "hop'!j was on her lips when, as suddehlyasta car had started, so it slowed down Ktger had it tnrder control again. The danger was past. The car -came to a stand-still. Doris sank back on her cushions, more unnened than she cared to show. She heard the doorhandle turn. Roger's face— white and drawn as one who had faced a great. peril — appeared. "Thank Heaven, Doris, you are safethat you did not attempt to jump out! • He waited a minute. "We have nearlj reached our destination," he said hriefly. He closed the door, and set the engine going. The car moved slowly on. f°r about three minutes it ran smoothly, th® stopped before a high wall. By the light of the powerful lamp> Doris saw a tall, narrow doorway. 11 every side wero trees, tall, gl°°®y and pines. The house she could not see. She coa cluded it was hidden by the denseMSs0 the woods. She could n0^ rePre,53 . shiver as Roger opened the door an sisted her out. , -He took her dumbly, and with a , which' he took from his pocket e locked the door in the wall. y light of a torch, he guided her ac'0^ courtyard overgrown with rank graSs weeds. ^ The air was chill. the atm°sp lC ^ like a tomh. Ihe prospect on ^ Doris' wide eyes rested wa® cheerful. All she could see of ^ home was a large square, stone i ho^> the courtyard, overgrown wit ® ^ With another key, Armer unioc door. A woman came qnickly to ^ -I hope." said Roger, rea-dy- for— the lady's reception. ' Doris glanced quickly up. or(jer, "I think you will fina tinily. sir," the woman rephed ^ "Please come this way, ^ will no doubt be glad of tea* ^ ti « | With a firm but not ungei atJ j. woman, who wore a kin o form, took hold of Doris arm "Thank you," said the & j bsn "I am quite able to go ®° ^gistazrf* not been iU. I req»>» °° from you."

She walked across the hall. It was cold and cheerless, like the outside. She turned, in time to see a strangely meaning glance pass between her husband and the elderly woman with the hard, fierce countenance. What did it all mean? Where was she? Why did they treat her like this? "My name is Merton — Nurse Merton," her guide said, as she threw open a door on the upper landing. "I hope you will find all as you wish. Mr Ross was most particular that you should be comfortable and happy." A bitter laugh broke from Dorie. Happy ? And why did they call her husband by another name than his own ? "My name," she said coldly, "is Mrs Armer." Again she caught a meaning look pass between her husband and Nurse Merton. "Yes — yes. Of course it is." The woman spoke soothingly. "And now, eir, if you won't take tea, pernaps you would go. I should like to hegin my — treatment as soon as possible." Low though the words were spoken, they reached Doris Armer's ears. Treatment ! Mystery upon mystery ! And then in a Hash it came to her. This woman believed her to be mad ! She — who was as sane ag any of them ! A dull sensation of despair crept over was in her husband's power. She had her, as she reali&ed Eow absolutely she defied him, and Ee in'tended she would pay the penalty. "Y'es. I see you have everything in order. I will call again as soon as possible. In the meantime, let me irnow how the — treatment succeeds." He muttered : "Good-Bye, Doris." And then suddenly he asked Nurse Merton to leave them alone for a minuta. "Will you speak? For the last time, will you break this intolerable silence?" She looked at him, her exquisite face white as marble, and as unresponsiv,e. "Then on yoar own head be all that will undoubtedly happen. In this house, far from the world, you will remain. To those who will attend on you — you ar.e mau; You will be treated as insane. Good-bye!" Ile was gone. She heard the front door, and then the gate, close behind him. Nurse Merton came, 'and with quiet persistence induced her to go to her own room. Then she left her, locking the door behind her. ' After all, Doris was not unwilling to be alone. Her little suite consisted of a bed and sitting-room, opening off one another. They were prettily and cheerfully furnished. Ghintz coverings and hangings banished, in a measure, the sombreness of the panels and ceilings. "If oniy I knew where I was!" Doris beat her hands one against the other. She pulled aslde the cuicains. Sne could see nothing. It was pitch dark outside. Only a wind had arisen, anci fhe trees whispered to each other. She took off her walking things, put on a warm wrapper, and sat down by the fire to nurse her gloomy thoughts. Then a strange thing happened. She thought she heard a slight noise ; and, turning round, to her astonishment she saw one of the oak panels slide slowly back. She held her breath as a man quietly slipped down into the room. A MAN OF MYSTERY. Doris's amaz,ement at this unexpected invasion of her privacy was unbounded. She stared at the man, whilst the man returned her stare with mterest. It was quite evident that he was utterly surprised to find the room occupied. A heavy muffler hid the lower part of his face ; a slouck hat pulled down over his face; a slouch hat pulled well down over his face added to the disguise. "Who are you? And how do you come to be here?" he demanded roughly. "Are you a spy? If so — " -His hand went to his hip pocket with a gesture whlch could mean one thing only. But Doris did not flinch. Not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did she show fear. I do not know what you mean," she said coldly. "I did not even know of that secret entrance." She pointed to the panel, which the intruder had not slid back into position, but had left open, showing a yawning chasm. "l~ou swear that?" His attitude was inenacing, his hand still remained in his hip pocket. "There Ts no need to swear. I give you my word of honour that I know nothing about this house. I only came here a few hours ago." The man, whom Doris now saw had pale eyes antl a bearded face, camo up to her, and looked steadily at her. "I wonder n I can believe you?" he muttered. His voice was cultivated — that of an educated man. Very quietly shd replicd i

"I assure you you can." Again He muttered : "I wonder?" And turning quickly closed the panel. Doris Armer's heart began to thump, and small wonder if it didl Up to the present, by reason of her declaration of silence, her existence had been one of dreary monotony. Now it t'hreafened to be full of incident. Alone in a room with a strange man who had suddenly appeared before her, a burglar, or desperado, in a house the very name oi which she had never heard — a supposed lunatic imprisoned by her husband'g orders — surely the situation might well have terrified a defenceless woman. But Doris felt no fear, not in the ordinary acceptance of the term. She had gone through so much that her senses had become numhed. And well for her, in this crisis, that this was so. Had she shown abject fear, screamed for aid or resorted to the usual means of summoning help, there is no knowing what might have been her fat-e. "You're a good plucked 'un, and no mistake!" There was a note of reluctant admiration in the man's voic.e, and he withdrew his Eand from his pocket. "Aren't you afraid?" Doris shrugged her shoulders. • "Not particularly," she said coolly. "I do not suppose you will shoot me. Firearms make quite a loud noise. My attendant would come running to see what's the matter. I am a prisoner." "A prisoner! Who has imprisoned you?" The man's tone hs3 altered in an extraordinary manner. It betrayed the deepest interest. It seemed as if he had forgotten the object of his visit — whatever it was — in contemplation of the beautiful young woman who stood calmly meeting his gaze. "Does it matter?" she said.. "To me — a great deal." Certainly this was an extraordinary reply, and Doris stared — as well she might. She had never seen the man before, and yet he appeared to take an intense interest in her. "T'hat can hardly be," sh.e said quietly^ "since you don't even know my name." The fact that she asked no questions of him seemed to surprise the intruder. "Shall I guess-ft?" he said, after a long pause. "If you like. I do not think you will succeed, though." "I'm not so sure." Again a long pause, during which the man's eyes never left the lovely face, on which was tha imprint of deep suffermg. "You ara M'rs Roger Armer — the Silent Wife!" Now indeed was Doris Armer's interest aroused. "How on earth did you know?" The man laughed. "There is very little we don't know. It is our business to know most things — par- I ticularly about Roger Armer." There was a sinster note in his voice that did not escape Doris. "But why about him?" Again the man laughed — this time grimly "Trade secrets, lady — business secrets. secrets that must never be told!" And then suddenly : "Would you like to escape from this prison of yours?" "lres!" She drew an eager breath. "Then you shall. But not to-night — 'twould be too risky. Be ready to go tomorrow at this hour. I will arrange everything. Leave all to me. " Before she could utter a word or ask a single question, the man went towards the panel. It slid back. Lightly as an acrobat he leapt upwards. The panel closed noiselessly behind him. Doris stood in the centre of the room. Was it a delusion after all? Had her brain indeed given way, as it was supposed to have done? Had she fallen asleep over the fire, and dreamed a remarkably vivid dream? No, she could not believe that. She crossed to the epot where the stranger had appeared. and disappeared so mysterionsly. She ran her hand along the worm-eaten oak panelling, and found it stronger than it looked. No sign that this particular panel was in any way different from the others was apparent. She stirred the fire into a blaze, and sat down to think. Suppose she trusted to this stranger to leiease her from her prison? What might the result be? It was a risky and dangerous proceeding to trust herself in the hands of a man virtually unknown to her. And yet that way lay freedom. By going, and leaving no trace behind her, she could escape a far worse fate than any the fntnre could probably hold for her. That Roger would seek her far and wide she knew well. He would not be baulked of his vengeance. Yet she need never see him again. She would never see him again. [(Continued on page 4.)

Tfoo Sslent Wife,

(Continued from Page 3. ) And now, as she realised this possibility, she experienced a dull ache at her heart. She would be dead to him, and in time he would accept t,his as truth, and - f orm a new life lor himself. Ther,e was always Isobel Vane to console him. For her — Doris — life was emWL For Roger the future might hold much. Plans began to formulate, Msionary as yet, to crystalise in time into as strange and romantic a dream of real life as it is possible to imagine. Doris Armer was wrorig ! Her career was only just beginning ! Life and adventure lay before her ! Before she sought rest, she made a careful examination of the two rooms in which slie was, by Roger's orders to spend long, weary weeks and months. Well had they guarded against her escape. The windows were screwed ddwn, 1 the doors lockecT on the outside. She was as much a prisoner as though she occupied oue of His Majesty's cells ! The indignity of Roger's way oi treating her drove the « last bit of softness eiit of Dorjs Armer's breast. A hard, bitter feeling filled it, to the exclasion of all else. Not that she had any reason to complain of her treatment as far as comfoi'ts wenfc. Nurse Merton appeared earlv at her bedside with a daintilv-spread t-ray ; a rosy-faced girl "lighted a fire. For ixere, in this tree-surrounded house, it was chijl and damp. But the surt was shining, and Doris 9 spirits rose — as those of the young and heaRhy are bound to do. If Nurse Merton lioticed an undeHy-ng exciteraent in her patient's manner, ?ke took no notice. The mentally afflicted are usually excitable. "Can't I go out?" Doris inquired, as she looked out of the window upon the gardens below. Uncultivated though 'hey were, there was yet a wild luxuriance about them that appealed to Doris' s stormy mood. They, at any rate, wexe free. "Which I shall be to-niglit, unless the mystericus stranger does not keep his pi'o. mise," thought Doris. "I'd rather you didn't, Mrs Ross. Not until Mr Ross has been." "All right," acquiesced the girl, feighing an indifference she was far frprn feeling. "But why do you call him Mr Ross?" Nurse Merton smiled indulgently. "Because that's -his name," s.le said. Doris said nothing. Nurse Merton brought her a pile of books and papers. Jenkens had packed up her work-basket, and Doris set herself a task of embroidery, hoping by this means to make the time pass more quickly. Her one thought was of what adventures lay before her that night. (To be Continued).