THE SILENT WIFE!

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 43, 14 January 1921, Page 2

THE SILENT WIFE!

By MARK ENGLISH.

Rem&rkstbls Drama of Marrled Life.

THE F1RST 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 cheeks took a deep tint, for she loved the kindly, grave-faced young doctor deeply As the doctor went his rounds, she heid each little patient's hand, for the pain never seemed so bad when Sister Doris was near, and when all the patients nad 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 yo l?" he asked, and she smiled and nodded, They spoke of many things, and at last when they had reached a more secluded spot the doctor seized her hand. "Miss Thobury," be said, "I love you — . I love you with all my heart and soul Will you be my wife?" She looked at nnn 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 I 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 i through ; refuse and you are ruined!" j j The speaker, Rciger, .Armer, was a strong, ' hard man ; he was Walter Thobury's i 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 frightened. 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 j in the hands of Roger Armer. And now i he found that he was on the brink of ruin, and only Armer could pull him j through, and that he would only do so on ' one condition, and that was that he ' should marry Doris. And in his weak- j ness and fear of ruin the crushed man ] agreed — actually agreed to sacrifice his j 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 future and promised. That evening she wrote a short note to Paul Weston tc"ing him she had changed her mind and could never be his wife. Her engagerrient 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. Paul Weston, a young doctor and her former lover, with whom she had been forced to break her -engagement. He obtains for her a post as a nnrse at a private house, which she thankfully accepts. A few days after, she reads in the paper that the "missing Mrs Armer" has been found drowned, but actually the j unrecognisable body that was discovered ! belonged to an unknown girl to whom Doris had given her clothes.

Then one day a new housekeeper arrived at Mr Farr's house, and Doris was horrified to recognise in her one of her thief-husband's accomplices. One day Mr Farr's house is burgled and Doris, recognising her husband's work in this, rushes off to her old home to warn him. Meanwhile Doris, who knows that he is the thief, bicycles over to Westways Court to warn him that a celebrated detective is on his track. She arrives at the lodge gates to discover he has had a motor accident, and that Isobel Vane is nursing him. As a result, he loses his memory, and is taken to a nursing home by Doris, who acknowledges herself his wife. Roger does not recognise her, but he recovers, and suddenly disappears. His twin brother, Richard Armer, who is the real thief takes him to a house where he tells him the whole truth. Roger's memory returns with a shock when Richard tells him Doris is alive. "THE BEST THING HE COULD DO." "Doris alive!" Roger Armer repeated. And then sternly. "You lie!" The man who was so strangely like Roger shook his head. "Not this time, Roger. Doris lives ! She is well ! ' ' And then he looked curiously into the now haggard face; and perhaps for the first time he realised the enormity of the wrong he had done his brother. "Do you mean to tell me you remember nothing of what has happened the last few weeks?" Richard was naturally anxious to know how much Roger rememhered of his visit j to the office ; of his signing of the deeds that gave the gang powers to realise a large sam of money. "It's all coming back to me," Roger said. And then, in a hoarse, choking, voice he asked: "How' could you do it, Dick? You have parted me from Doris for ever ! She will never believe that I am not the criminal she thinks I am. You see, she never knew' I had a twin brother. I rvas ashamed to let her know that I had a criminal brother. I would not have married her- — much as I loved her — had I not been certain you w,ere dead. How did you manage that fraud?" "Quite easily, Roger. Wanda — my wife, you know — is a brick. She stuck to me through thick and thin. One of her brothers died, and is was easy to alter the death certificate. Bill Garland lies in a far-off grave under the name of Richard Armer — as a nameless girl does in a Sussex village on the cliffs under the name of Doris Armer." "Richard, I might find it in me to foi*giv,e your crimes against society, your frauds against me, but for this last fraud I can never forgive you. Tell me, why are you here? It would have been easy to leave me here — to die." "That is the one thing I could not do," the man said. "I am going out of your life now; I shall never return. But Doris will. You will be happy with her. A new life lies before you and her." He moved slowly towards the door. Roger, summoning up all his strength caught him by the arm. "You shall not go!" he cried. "Brother or no brother, I will not allow you to go free! I will summon the poiice; I will hand you over to the law. You deservo punishment. Why should you go free?" He felt his strength failing him, but never in all his life had memory been keener. Everyt-hing that nad passed smce his accident lay like a printed map before him. Like pictures on a screen, each event lay, and passed in order before his mental vision.

He saw the nursing home. He saw himself seated in the garden, Doris — as he had first seen her, in her dainty uniform, white aproned and capped — sitting beside him. The next mental picture depicted him striding through the crowd,ed streets, every nerve strained to reach his office. And the ffiere appeared on the scene Richard and Barlow. As of old he sat at his desk, pen in hand, whilst Barlow placed before him certain documents for signature. His hand moved — he signed his name. To what? The last picture was a little blurred. He was in his room, and it seemed full of people — the woman Wanda, Henry Barlow, a man they called Philip. "Where are your accomplices?" Roger asked, as his hands fell from Richard's arms, and he staggered blindly oackwards. He had miscalculated his strength. How strange his own voice sounded. Was he fainting? Or was the awful sensa. tion of sinking deeper and deeper — death? For a few minutes Richard stood, silently gazing down at the recumbent form that had sunk quietly on to the carpet. He sighed deeply. "I wish it could have been different," he muttered. He hesitated, and then, almost reluctantly, he drew from an inner pocket a

small packeh. This he transfered td Roger Armer's pocket. "It's all the reparation possible, and I shall get into an awful row with the others when they know what I've done. But, after all, they can say nothing. H0 smiled grimly. "I took the risk— I take the blame. I have the right to act as I like. Maybe it's a bit of sentiment. Poor Roger! I wish Fate had given you a better brother!" His sharp ears, trained by his long career of crime, caught the sound of a car turning the corner of the street. Quick as thought he slipped over to the curtained window and peered out. Too well did he know who occupied the car that drew up before the house ! "Tracked here!" Richard cried hoarsely. "Trapped like a rat in a trap, for that Detective Smart has no doubt communicated with the local poiice." Like an animal at bay he turned, seeking a way of escape, only to be confronted by Geoffrey Smart. "Hands up!" shouted Richard Armer. Whipping a nickel-plated revolver from his pocket, he covered the detective. "Not much!" retorted Geoffrey Smart — who, to do him justice, had plenty of pluck. "Two can play at that game. You don't imagine I'm such a fool as to come here unarmed." They stood a moment glaring into each

other s faces. Both weapons were raised, and Heaven only knows how the duel of wits would have ended, had not Doris rushed forward. "It's Roger! Don't shoot, Mr Smart! It s Roger !" Richard saw his chance, and took it. laken for a second off guard. Smart lowered hls weapon. Like a flash of lightning Richard slipped past him, almost knocking down Paul Weston, whom he met ascending the stairs. "That isn't your husband, Mrs Armer ! ' Smart shouted angrily. "That is Richard Armer the thief, whom I hoped to capture. You have spoiled a splendid piece of work — unless I can get him yet!" He was gone like a whirlwind; and followmg on his hurried exit there came the sound of a wild scuffle in the passage below. Fate was on the detective's side. Paul Weston had taken the precaution of locking the front door. It resisted all Richard's efforts to open it, and so he was trapped! Doris crouched on the landing above. In spite of Smart's declaration that the man who was grappling with him was not her husband, she could hardly realise that it wa® not Roger on whom her terrified eyes rested. Hold hard !" shouted Weston. Too late! A shot rang out — a puff of smoke, and Richard Armer fell against the wall, and dropp,ed slowly to the ground. Paul Weston knelt, and laid his hand on the man's heart. He jrose silently. No need for words. "He was getting the worst of it," panted the detective, "and so turned the weapon on himself. Well" — he shrugged his shoulders — "after all, it was the ~est thing the fellow could do under the circumstances. I've got a warrent for his arrest. There are no fewer than six specific charges out against him. Mr Roger Armer' s losses are smal] by comparison with those sustained by others. Miss Farr, for instance. And now ' must go to the police-station at once. I'll leave a constable in charge while I go. Why, where's Mrs Armer?" Paul Weston pointed to an open door. "She went in there." Doris had immediately recognised tha house as the ona to which she had been brought. Instinct led her to the eame room where she had lain for hours in Her drugged sleep. On the threshold she paused. A man lay on the floor, his face turned from her. But she knew it was Roger — her Roger 1 Had they killed him, too? Had she come too late? Her wild cry reached Paul Weston. Her white, anguished face worked piteously as she waited breathlessly for the young doctor's verdict. "Is he dead, Paul?" "Bless you — no! A faint, that's all. I've a flask ahout me somewhere." In a few minutes, D oris— standin g by Paul's suggestion a little way off — had the satisfaction of seeing her husband sit up and gaze round. "Where's Richard?" he asked, ''He was here a minute ago! Why, Weston, how did you get here?" There was no coldness in Roger's manner. He addressed Paul as he would any other acquaintance he met unexpectedly. "It's a long story, Armer," Paul said evasively. "Too long to go into now. You mustn't forget you've had a long illness. That motor accident, you know, returning from London. "Yes — yes. Doris nursed me. Or did I dream it?" He sighed. "gi course it must have been a dream," he said. "Doris left me " The girl made a sudden movement forward. By an authoritative gesture Paul Weston stopped her. He feared the consequences of too much emotion. Neither physically nor mentally was Roger Armer fit for further excitement. "Lie still just a few minutes, Mr Armer," he said. "Don't exert yourself 1 have a car outside. I will drive you liome." "Home! Do you mean Westways Court?" "Yes, I do mean Westways Court; you will soon pick up there." Paul beekoned Doris from the room. "There is a train to Westways in half an hour. Can you catch that, while 1 drive Armer down?" "Paul, let me go with him," she entreated. "No." Paul was firm. "Let him find you waiting for him as if nothing had ever happened to separate you," he suggested. "He will accept tha situation only too gladly." Doris Armer clasped her hands. "Oh if .1 o;ily thought you were right!" "Believe me, I am right. Y"ou will have time to arrange every thing."

He smiled as she hurried down the stairs, casting a shuddering glance at the closed door behind which lay all that remained of Richard Armer. Paul cleverly managed to get Roger safely out of the ho"use without his patient knowing anytliing of the tragedy that had so recently happened. Smart helped him by keeping in the background. "I shall have to interview him as soon as possible," he said. "I'll run down to Westways as soon as I get this job fixed up. I'm afraid I'll have to trouble you, Mrs Armer, too. There are a lot of documents on the man, but not the faintest clue as to the whereabouts of the remainder of the gang. What on earth induced Armer to come here, goodness knowsl Perhaps Mr Roger Armer can throw some light on the subject. Ah ! Here you are, inspector. Come inside." He opened the closed door, and they passed inside, and locked it behind them. Paul Weston took this opportunity of assisting Armer down and into the waiting car. During the run down into Bucks, Roger hardly spoke. He was wondering what had become of his brother. By this time, doubtless, he was on his way to the nameless destination he had indicated. Well, let him go. After all} Richard was his brother. Only two questions which Paul found hard to answer did Armer put. "Was I alone when you came?" "When I found you there was no one in the room with you," was Paul's diplomatic reply. "How did you find out where they had taken me?" "The detective — Smart — traced you. don't worry, Mr Armer. All's well — now." Impulsively he put out his ..and. "You have my best wishes." Roger grasped it warmly. "Thank you, Weston I — I've been mad, I think, ever to have doubted Doris." And they left it at that. "THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME." To say that Mrs Spry was over joyed to see her rtiistresa return so quickly is to put it mildly; and when Doris told her ta help her to prepare to receive her master she was beside herself with delight. "The young couple had made it up," she confided to Jenkins. "It was all that mischievous Miss Vane's doing, She always knew she was up to no good. Of course, there was a lot to clear up; but, after all, w..at did it matter — what did anything matter — so long as master and missus come together again." And so on. But though Mrs Spry's tongue wagged fast, .she and her staff worked with sueh good will that long before the car containing Roger and Paul Weston appeared in the avenue everything was in readiness to give the master of The Court a royal welcome home. And Doris, in her own apartments, was doing her share, too. fc>he had asked -enkins to do her hair in exactly the same style as she had worn it on the day on which, as the unwilling, unloving bride of Roger Armer, she had entered her "prison" house. How all this was changed. Her heart throbbed with love and deepest gratitude. But a new fear gripped her. Would Roger allow her to remain ? After all that had passed had he not the right to refuse to share his home with her? And if he did not share it, then Doris knew it would be no home to her. Jenkins held up the same black dress which Doris insisted on wearing on her wedding night. She shuddered as she reealled all that had happened since then. "No — no! There'-s a white dress. I — I'll wear that. It's a — a gala night, Jenkins. I want the master to feel :t is so. He's been ill, you know," she stammered, flushing rosy red as she met Jenkins' curious gaze. As soon as the maid had left the room, Doris turned eagerly to the long mirror set in the wall of the Tblue and silver room she had haied. Critically she scanned the face and figure reiiected therein. "How I have changed!" she sighed. "How much older I look; and yet, as yea-rs count, I am still but a giri . She laughed mirthlessly. "I feel a hundred! And how thin I've grown!" She went downstairs. Nothing would do but that she should arrange the flowers herself. She had ordered dinner to be set in the small dining-room ; a pretty room, far cosier than the great room where she had eaten her first honeymoon meal — with Isobel Yane making wa. esweicome third. "She would be far more unwelcome," Doris thought, "if she came to-night. But she's not ilcely to do that. She doesn't know that Roger will be here." (Continued on. Page 4.)

THE SILENT WIFE. (Continued from page 3.) And then a quick thought stabbed her. What if Roger wanted Isobel, and did not want her— Doris ? Well, if he did, she would go. She would accept this as the punishment for her long silence. Roger Armer's sensations, as he stopped the car at the great gates of his home, were as mixed as Doris's. Weston had told him that Doris would be waiting and a curious shyness took hold of him. "I'll go up alone, Weston," he said half apologetically. "You don't mind, do you?" He held out his hand, and Paul gripped it warmly. "1 think it far better that you should go alone. Doris would not thank me ior" i intruding. I know." He smiled genially ; putting— like the unselfish fellow he was— all thought of self on one side. And so it happened that Roger Armer saw his wife before she had any idea that he had come. She was standing bending over a tall goblet, in which she was arranging some exquisite hot-house blooms. Though the window stood open, « bright fire of pine logs threw out a genial heat. A small round table stood in ;the centre of the room5 sparkling with cut glass and old silver. His eyes grew dim. The gracious figure of the beautiful girl grew misty. With x yearning cry he stepped over the sill. "Doris! My wife — my darling!" The girl turned. The flowers fell, unheeded, from her hands. With a low cry of rapture she went straight to his arms — as a bird flies for shelter to her mate. "Oh, I beg parding ma'-am!" Mrs Spry's voice cut in upon the splen. did silence, and sent them, blushing like an engaged couple caught in the aet of love-making to different parts of theroom. "I didn't know the master had come. Vv ei. come home, sir — welcome!" The good old woman beamed on the handsome couple. "We sha'n't know ourselves now with our master and mistres® both at home. You've come to stay I hope?" She looked wistfully, first at Roger, then at Doris, and from Doris back to Roger. Her expression spoke volumes, and was so comical, and yet so pathetic, that husband and wife could not refrain from smiling. "Have you?" whispered Doris, with a look Mrs Spry could not understand. "Have you?" Roger whispered back, with an expression on his handsome face that Mrs Spry afterwards described as "that touching, it made me want to cry." It was Doris who answered the old woman's question. "Yes, Mrs Spry. We've both come home — to stay. Roger and I are tired of roaming." "Bless you, dearies!" Tears welled into the faithful creatnre's eyes. "I'm glad. There's no place like home, when all's said and done. And you'll excuse me, sir, but you wants kitchen physic now, by your looks ! We must fatten 'im up — mustn't we, ma'am?" "Yes, indeed!" Doris cried. "And if — if anyone should call . Oh, well, say anything, only don't let them in!" "That I won't!" cried Mrs Spry. "I'll tell 'em I'll give any of them the sack as lets any visitors inside this place this evening. ' ' She waddled away ; and as soon as they were alone, Doris went np to Roger and laid her arms round his neck. "This is our real honeymoon," she said softly. "That is, if you can ever forgive me." Roger pressed his lips on her beautiful barnished hair. Presently they went upstairs togther, arm in arm. They had suffered so much they felt one could scareely let the other out of sight. For a time the joy of their re-uniou drove all else out of their minds. They forgot that, before they dare accept their full happiness, many grim details must be settled that whilst their cup was fillecl with joy, bitter grief filled another' s. Wanda Armer had lost her husband, who, in spite of his sin and weakness, she adored ; whilst Doris, had despite her folly, regained hers. Roger's identity mpst be proved beyond the shadow of a doubk- before he could again hold up his head among his fellows. For rumour is hydra-headed, and bitter tongues are not easily silenced. Dinner was over, and Roger and Doris sat in the window, gazing out on to the beautiful gardens. "I beg pardon, sir, but I foiind this packet jn the pocket of your coat. I thought it might be important." Roger's servant handed him a sealed packet. "And this letter, sir, has just come." Roger opened the packet first. "What can it be?" he said curiously. Doris leaned over his shoulder. Some-

thing told her the packet contained something of importanee. "It's remarkably heavy," Roger laugh: ed. The paper fell away, and — Mrs Vander. decken's pearls dropped from it! In a flash they saw it all. This was part of Richard Armer's late reparation. "We must let her know at once," said Roger decidedly. "Poor, misguided Dick! Ah, well, he paid the penalty of his sins if ever a man did!" Doris laid her soft cheek against the haggard one of Dick's brother. "And to think I took him for you!" He laid his lips on hers, and so silenced further speech. A while later there was a knock at the door and Mrs Spry entered. "I said I'd sack anyone as disturbed you to-mght," she said, "and now I've been and done ! it myself ! But there's a pore soul as says | she must see yer. It's a matter o' life an' death, she ses " "Her name?" Roger asked. "She won't give no name. She's heavy veiled, but somehow she seems familiar like " Husband and wife exchanged gia-nces. "Is'it Wanda?" "Yes," a voice from the shadows said. "I came to bring you — these." She opened her bag, and poured out a glittering heap of jewels upon the table. Doris recognised Helena Farr's jewels and her own tiara. "He's dead," Wanda said listlessly, "and so nothing matters. They can do what they like with me — now. You have the pearls, I see." She turned slowly away. "You mustn't go!" Doris caught her hand. "You are not fit to travel! How did you come?" "Mr Smart broug^ me.'" Roger rose. . "I'm going to see Smart," he whispered to Doris. "Take her to your own rooms, dearest. Comfort her — get her to stay, if possible. I 'Will make it right with Smart. He is in my employ, so H may be possible to keep things quiet. Anyhow, I'll do my best. After all, she is my brother 's widow." It was long before the heartbroken woman was able to leave the Court ; and then she left it for a tiny cottage on the estate. For many days Wanda's life trembled in the balance ; and when eventually she recovered, it was found that her reason had fled. She clung like a child to Doris, waiting — always waiting and watching — for the husband who never came. "I don't believe a word of your story!" These words, in Isobel Vane's high-pitch-ed voice, reached Roger Armer as he stood on the landing outside his wife's boudoir. "How you managed to get round Roger as you did, goodness knows ! If you didn't steal the jewels yourself, you were in league with the gang that did. Why did you masquerade as a nurse to Helena Farr, if it wasn't to get hold of the fool's jewels. Ha.} you see -L know more than you imagined ! x our vow of silence was all part of a welllaid plot. You broke it soon enough when it suited you!" How long Isobel would have gone on isulting Doris it is hard to say, had not Roger Armer broken in on her flow of abuse. "Stop!" he said sternly. "Say another word, and I shall forget you are a woman. Every word uttered against mv wife and, oii ■ what a world of love and pride Roge-r Armer's voice held— "will be sternly resented by me. It is unnecessary for you to know the rea.s0ii that made it seem desirable to Mrs Armer to leave her home, ' but this much 1 will tell you. -It was my fault— entirely my faulc; and here, in the presence of you who have insulted one of the nest and dearest women in all the world, I ask her to forgive me. Doris — will you?" Passing th,e crestfallen Isobel, he put his arms round Doris, and kissed her. I was to blame as well," Doris smiled radiantly. "You won't get the country to accept this trumped-up story!" sneered isobel, maddened by the lover-like expression on Roger's face. _ "I shall take care to — " Rcger turned and seized her wrist. un his face was that look of strength and determination Doris kn,ew of old. "Say one word against my wife and I'll have you put out. Now go!" And, strange to say, Isobel went without another word. That evening Roger called upon her, and the next day she and her aunt left the cottage. No reason was given for Miss Vane's swift exit. . Only she and Roger knew ; and for different reasons the lips of each were sealed. •: s » •: Roger and Doris Armer had chosen an old-world fishing village on the Dfevon coast for their holiday. They had finished

their frugal supper, and now wandered — like the lovers they were — hand in hand on the glittering sands that lay below the little inn where they were staying. For some time they stood silent) gazing out across the moonlit sea. Suddenly Doris leaned against her husband's shoulder, and, looking fondly down into the beloved face, Roger saw that the sweet, grey eyes were full of tears. "What — tears, sweetheart! On our honeymoon — our real honeymoon ! How's that?" "I was thinking how much time we have have lost, Roger, and of my wicked vow. ' He closed her lips with a kiss. "We will make up for lost time, dearest heart," he said. "If you reproach yourself for so small a thing, what must I do — who won you by a trick. It is the one thing of which I am ashamed." "\vhy did you do it?" A smile foug-A the tears in Doris's eyes. "Because I loved you so madly that I would have moved heaven and earth to win you for my own." Intense passion shook the man, as he held her closer and yet closer to his neart. "I do not deserve your love, Doris, but — "You have it, Roger. My whole heart is yours. I can't tell when I first begai* to love you. I think I must have loved you always^ though I did not know it, even in the days when I was 'The oilent Wife.' " In silence more eloquent than words, the married lovers' lips met in a long k:ss of perfect love and understanding. The End.