THE SILENT WIFE!

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 35, 12 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 rounds, she held each little patient's hand, for the pain never seemed so bad when Sister Doris was neai'; and when all the patients nad been examiaed her duty for the day was over. As she was going out of the Cottage Hospital gate, Paul Weston overtook her. "May 1 accompany yTon?" he asked, and she smiled and nodded. They spoke of many things, and at last when they liad reached a more secluded spot the doctor seized her hand. "Miss Thcbury," he said, "I love you — I love you with all my heart and soui. 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 pr.evious night, an interview was going on which was to alter lier 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, liard man ; he was Walter Thobury's mariager, 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 man- | ager he looked frightened. His uncle had died and lefb him the huge business of Thobury and Co. But he did not troubie himself about the business; he left it all in the bands 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 i 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 sacrffice his daughter to cave 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 fature 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 vvon 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 iells him she will never open her lips to him again. At last finding his threats of no' avail, and that she nas become a "silent wife," he takes her to a house in ihe middle of a lonely wood, and leaves her there in the charge of a nurse, whom he tells she is mad. When Doris is thinking over her terriole situation in her room a sliding panel opens

; and a man appears, who is wiliing to help her to escape. "HE WOULD TAKE HER IN HIS ARMS AND KISS HER." Isobel Vane came upon Armer as he strolled moodily up and down the garden of Westways Court. His thoughts were far from being enviable ones. 'ihe drastic steps he had taken to force Doris to speak filled him with disgust of himself. And yet, he argued, what else could b'e do? He could not lose her. By a lie he had gained her — by force he would ke,ep her. Yet he felt how futile was the course he had taken. The girl he had married had as strong a will as his own ; the proud spirit would not easily be broken. If this last treatment failed, there seemed . nothing left to him but to open the door of her cage and let his wild, beautiful bird escape. To-night he would go to her. He would not plead in words. He would try another method. He wculd take her in his arms — plead for pardon for the lie he had told to her — tell her that it was love that had driven likn to such a mean action. He would hold her, never let her go until she whispered her forgiveness. And then these softer, saner thoughts were thrust aside by the image of Paul Weston. Before his mental vision there arose the picture of Doris sitting on the the Demon, Paul's eyes fixed upon her face. "She is too good to ignore her marriage vows," he thought bitterly. "She may not, does not, love me ; but there is no other man in her life. She would not allow it, but she cannot help her thoughts. She would have been happy with Weston but for me." It was in this frame of mind that Isobel Uund the man she had never ceased to love.

"Roger," she said, in a low tender voice, "is it true that Doris has left you?" H swung round upon her, his face hard, his eyes stern with misery. "No, it is not true." Isobel ventured to put her hand on his sleeve, Coldly, he drew his army away. Isobel bit her lip with annoyance. How impcssible Roger had become since he .-ad : married Doris ! "Don't be angry with me. But people will talk, Roger. It's all over the place that Mrs Ariner left the "Court, taking luggage with her. Roger, dear" — she dropped her voice to a cooing whisper — "we used to he such palsl I want to help you. Won't you let me do anything I can?" Roger's ill teniber vanished beneath the undeniable charm of the woman. After all, why should he visit his ill humour on this old friend, who offered help and ga-ve him sympathy ? "Forgive me, Isobel. You touched ma on the raw. Pm very sore, you know. "Ancl no wonder." Isobel siglied effectively. "Doris acted in an unpardonable manner at your dinner. But. of course, she didn't mean what she said, No sane woman could live under the same roof with her husband, and never speak. The thing's impossible. It's only servants' I gossip I've heard." "What have you heard?" , "That she will not speak — never has spoken since that night? Oh, Roger, how I felt for you! You, who have given her everything a woman could possibly want. Tell me it isn't true." "It is true — every word of it," said Roger sternly. "But it can't go on. Doris is not at liome, but I know where she is, and to-night I am going to her — " He broke off, liis face working with emotion. Isobel watched him furtively. She was wondering where Doris was. "I am going to tell her I love her, that there is no sacrifice I won't mahe to win a word from her."

Isobel's face changed. It grew hard and relentless. This was not in the least what she wanted. "And, what of your pride, Rcger? Are you going to allow your wife to triumph, to be able to throw it in your face that she got the hetter of you? I didn't think vou were that sort-, Roger. YTou are a man to command, not to obey. In ihe city you are a power. Many strong men fear you; not one of your employees dare disohey you. And yet you are as wax 111 tlie liands of a woman!" Her speech stung. She liad indeed touched Roger Armer 011 the raw. l ride, love of power, had ever been the great financier's failing. Every word isobel bad uttered was true. Isobel, watcliing his face, saw that her words had gone home, and left it at tnat. She persuaded him to accompany her to her cottage, and lunch with her and the oll maiden aunt with whom she livcd. She did not make the mistake of appearing curious about Doris. She had sowed the seed, and conlcT afford to wait for the harvest. When Roger left Rose Cottage he felt strangely rested, his self-respect restored, whilst his pride was soothed by Isobel's subtle fiattery. If only Doris was like Isobel, he thought, as his car rushed him up to London, where he had to keep an important appointment. Ile intended to dine at his ctuh, and ge straight to the lonely house in the woods, He would send his chaufieur back by train, and drive himself. How the long hours passecl to Doris she could never afterwards tell. Nurse Merton served her meals daintily in her pretty sitting-room, all unconscious of the secret the panelled walls concealed. Doris's attendant addressed her patient as Mrs Ross.

"She's not a bit of troubie," she told her niece, "and as sane as you are except fer her delusion about her husband. Sho thinks she's someone of the name of Armer, and she won't speak to him. We'll get her all right in tiine. If we can't I shall tell Mr Ross I can't under take tho responsibility alone. He'll have to put her in a properly registered asylum. Only I want our passage money to Australia, I wouldn't ha' taken on the job at all." "Mr Ross pays you well, aunt?" "Rather! I'm to have a Kundred pounds anyhow — two, if I can get licr to speak to him." "D'ye think you will?" Nellie Merton asked curionsly. "I don't think so. . She's cfie of the obstinate sort, is Mrs Ross." "Couldn't you get her back up, so as she would nag at him when he comes?" Mrs Merton shook her head. "She ain't the naggin' sort, worse luck !"

All day, on and off, Nurse Merton did her utmost to get at the bottom of Mrs Ross's mind. In vain ! Doris's thoughts ■wero her own, if nothing else was. At last the hour struck when she might expect her husband. A horrible dread came to her. Suppose, whilst she and Roger were together, the mysterious visitor should appear? And then, as she recalled the man's sinister allusion to Roger Armer, she felt a qualm of fear — not for herself, but for her husband. What if her freedom should mean danger to him ? If this should be so she could never forgive herself. Then the longing for freedom, for a way out of her difficulty, swamped every other sensation. As the hour named for her relase oy the mysterious stranger approached, the girl could scarcely restrain her excitement. Sbe liad packed in a small Oag her little stock of ready money — a f,ew *paltry shillings. She had brought no jewels. Her engagement and the w,edding ring upon her finger comprised her stock of jewellery. Roger had forbidden Jenkins to pack her mistress's jowel-case. Ag soon as she was free, Doris realised that she would have to work — and work

hard. She was verystrong7T^ be certain to get employment' °d other name she would hide her r *u marriage. ■ 1S5!W j A lonely life . for a girl but litti0 twenty; but it had no terrors ic ^ who- kriew what loneliness mea-t°l 1 Sitl At ten o'clock Doris rangth^ her jailer, for so she not unre^ouahW garded Mrs- Merton. When the le' peared, she said carelessly : "I do not think Mr Ross w;n | evening; and, if he does, ask him not? disturb me. I have nothins tn M him." 0 saY to Resolutely she beat down her exciJ ment. Were she to show the sli^^ symptom of uneasiness, the nUrSe Lu insist on remaining with her. "i can't think why Mr'Ross has , come. But I agree with y0U) Mrs R0s I don't think lie will come to-nignt H-« you everything you require, madam?" " ' ' Y es, thank you. You can lock rae in And oh, hadn't you hetter see that the screws in the sash are quite secure'" Nurse Merton looked surprised, as well she might ; but, thinking it \n% 1 yj 0f dreary fun ofi her patient's part, humouTed her by oheying her strange request. "You will have your joke, ivrra uoss.". She laughed jovially. "We have to Keep screws in, or the windows would rattlo like anything. ' ' Doris only smiled. Mrs Merton went out, and Doris head the key very gently turned, and the nurse's foot descend the stairs. Quickly she put 011 her warm coat over her coat and skirt, tied a veu round ner hat, and, with her bag at her feef, sat down to await the summons. In ten minutes she saw the panel slide back, and the stranger dropped, as belore, to the ground. "Quick!" he said breathlessfp "We have no time to lose. Give me you bag."He tossed it into the dark cliasm. And now you must trust youtsell to me," It might give our secret away." And then, as he paused, bewildered by the man's impetuosity, he added: "Y"ou can trust me. Really you caa." Upon this assurance she mnktei herself to his strong arm, and was swung up into what appeared to her illiraihble space and total darkness. She heard the panel slide back, Ths man clutch.ed her arm, and dropped (lora at her si-de. "Huh ! Not a moment too soon! XoU word, as you value your life!" She remained perfectly still. The m urmur of voices, dim at firet and then dearer, came dist-inctly to her ears.

IN THE DEAD 0F NIGHT. Greatly to Armer' s annoyance lie wa! detained in town. 'Ihe big city magnatft with whom he had a stupendous deal on, insisted on dining with him. He could not very well tell his guest to go. ^ Roger was quite determmed to visit 1 8 Grange that night. His whole being w hungry for Doris, his soul was crying ou for her. As he sent his car m S along thc quiet lanes he pictured hf ^ he had last seen her — pale and deternH"® with her beautiful lips tightly ri°se 1 But to-night she would speak to mg • he would try what love would do to ma those soft lips unclose. His kisses s be the key that would unlock those g of silence. , ^ As he entered the .gardens he g'anc ^ at the window of the room h,e ha- -c for Doris's prison. Well, he had c0® release her. , „ w No matter how she received 0 ^ let bygones be bygones, he intende her home with him that night. ^ ^ In the car was ar. extra wai® 'G ^ pictured himself wrapping hei 'n folds, his face close to hers, ' e ? J of her beautiful hair into>lca b j senses. . ^ |, He had fi'is own latchkey, anU{i,aordin. The hall was dark, everything _ ff2| arily quiet, but no hint that ak ^ pi» amiss came to warn him. 1

way to the roonis occupied by jMurse Merton and Nellie. IIe would have to awaken them, for he did not possess a key that would open Doris's rooms. "Nurse! Are you awake It is 1 — Mr Ross!" "Bless my lieart, sir ! Is it you? We'd given you up for the night. No, I haven't gone to b,ed. I've not long come •down from madam's rooms." To prove her words, Nurse Merton omerged fully dressed, with the exception of her cap and a.pron. "How is your patient'V Rioger inquir.ed. ''k ine, Mr Ross. She's going on better than I anticipated. She seems to take rnore interest in things. She's dcne qnite a lot of embroidery to-day." Anotlier mental \ision rose before Roger Armer. How often had he seen his silent wife bending over her needlework, her mind miles away. "Bring a light. I wish to see my wife ; to-mght ; and nurse, it's probable that I shall take her back with me. My car is outside." Mrs Merton was disappointed, on the eA-e of success, it was annoying' to be baulked of her just dues. Two hundred pounds would be more useful than oue. Still she couldn't complain. She had 1 accepted an unusual job from an unusual man, and must put up with the consequences. i "I thmk, Mr Ross," she said quietly, "that I'd give the case a longer trial. 1 shouldn't be surprised," she added hopefully, "if you r lady should speak tonight." "In that case," said Armer s.-ortly, "you will have earned the extra hundred l I promised you." llovv devoutly Nurse Merton hoped the silent wife would speak was known only to herself. The dreariness of the prace was getting on her nerves. She wanted to go. To the poor prisoner upstairg sne gave no thought. To her Doris was a "case," and nothing more. Her lights are still on," whispered N urse Merton as they reached the upper landing. Sh.e inserted the key in fhe leck of the door, and entereci uie pretty Sitt;ng-room. "She's gone to her room, sir, but she shouldn t have left the lights on." Roger waited whilst the woman entered the next room. There was no light in the bed-room, but the nurse had a lighted candle. In a minute she returned, her face whit,e and scarcxl. "She's not in her room, sir; She's gone ! ' ' "Impossible ! " Roger declared. "Impoa>sible! Unlcss you've been careless it's impossible!" "Careless, sir! Not I. I — I can7't under. stand it. I myself locked the dcor not a quarter of an hour ago. She was sitting in tlie chair by the fire, as quiet as quiet. She never could get out o' 'that window surely !" A wave of horror swept through Roger Armer. If this had been her way cf escape Heaven help them all. A searching examination of the windows showed them still securely fastened down with screws ; the door had been locked on the outside. Roger Armer found himself confronied by a baftling mystery, one uiat appailed him.. He and Nurse Merton searc^ed the house from end to end, the garden, too, for it was moonlight almost as bright as day. Needless to say the search had no result. Roger decided to remain in Doris's rooms till daylight. He sent Nurse Mer. tou to bed, and began his weary vigil. As he sat through the long hours, the mans' thou.ghts were very bitter. He, and he alone, was responsible for this awful state of affairs. The mystery surrounding his wife's disappearance rose like a blank wall before him. Presently he threw back the shutters, and once more began his desperate search. The panelling of the room naturally came in for clofo inspection. Every portion of it Roger tapped carefully, but no holiow sound gave him a clue. And this was not surprising, seeing tuat across the aperture, set closs to the sliding panel, was a heavy iron door, which tlie stranger slid into place before he hurried Doris away down a long, narrow passage which seemed to the girl to oe endless. "That was my husband's voice," Doris had said. "Was it? Ah, well of course yon would recognise it. It certainly sounded like Armer's !" "Then you know him?" said Doris, somewhat startled by her liberator's words. The man laughed harshly. • "There are a great many who knew Roger Armer," he said shortly. On and on they went, guided by the ray of light from an electric torch. tha mystery man carried. The air in placea was very foul.

"I'd advise you to put your handerchief over your mouth," her compamon advised. "We shall'soon oc out of this." Presently then encountered a breath of pure air, and by this Doris Armer knew they were at their journey's end. Then they emerged into the open. The moon shone down on one of the wildest scenes Doris had ever pictured. Facing her were the sides of a deep chalk pit, overgrown with ferns and small, closeset shrubs. ait just a minute. WA must cover up our tracks." Strange to say, the girl felt no fear oi the bearded man. His manner to her was courteous, even gcntle. It seemed as thougli for sorne reason he pitied her intensely. Sae watched him drag up brambles an{ a big stone, which he used to conceal the narrow entrance in which {he subterraneav passage terminated. Now take my liand." He held out a slirn hand, whicli nevertheless possessed iron , strength. "We've got a climb. Don t be afraid, hang on to me. " Up the rugg,ed sides of the pit they scrambled, the man supporting- the girl's slender form. Once or twice she siipped, but he saved her from falling. It was a breathless climb, but at last they reached the top. Here, as round the Grange, dense woods rose on every side. "Where are.we" Doris asked. "I may not tell you. But you are safe with me, for the present." Were the words ominous? For the iirst time Doris Armer's supcrb courage faltered. Did this strange remark hold a deeper meaning ? A great longing for the house she had once regarded as a prison came to Doris. She Would have given worlds to have stood in the old hali at Westways Court, listening in silence to ITer husband's orders. And this time she would hav» obeyed them to the letfer. A sudden resolution Jormed in Doris's mind. She held out her hand with a t-remulous smile. "Thank you very much for all you have dono for me. You have reieased me from a — a very unpleasant position. I need not -trouble you further. I am not afraid of — of the woods. I can find my way to some railway station. Good-uye. I should like to know whom I have to thank ?" The man smiled grimly, his pale eyes •glistened, a sarcastic expression swept the bearded face. "I'm afraid I can't allow you to leave me just yet. Don't be afraid, Mrs Armer. I pledge my word no liarm shall befall you." He took hold of her arm, and led her towards the edg,e of the wood. C'onceealed behind the foliage was a small car. Into this the stranger helped Doris, turned the car, and presently they were running smoothly along a narrow "lane. Doris lay back, her eyes closed. The adventures through which she had passed liad exhausted her more than she knew. The man who sat besid.e her looked at her j furtively every now and then. "Here, I say Mrs Armer, don't faint ! You've been wonderful!y plucky all ; through. By jove, I don't know a woman who would have behaved with such superb courage! Take a sip of this." He took out a flack ; and then, as she i hesitated, he laughed a little mockingly. j "It isn't poison," he assured her. "Only i a drop of most excellent liquer brandy. It will pull you together." Ashamed of her momentarj' doubts, Doris drank from the silver cup. How strangely soothed she felt. The man was right. This was Doris Armer's last conscious ] thought. Her eyes closed again, and sne j passed into the dream slumber a powerful narcotic induces. A slow smile dawned on tlie stranger's face as he laid the girl on her piilows, cov. ering her up with a heavy rug. Then he let the car rip, and they rushed through the night in the diretion of London. (To be Continued).