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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
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"When I sit there, in her drawing-room and look
at her photograph, I don't feel quite so lonely."
"LOOK," said Mary. "There are the lights of Mabel's House."
"They're cheerful," said John. "Shan't be sorry to get back to a home-fire myself."
The young people were tired from trudging along the semi-obliterated moorland road, as well as disheartened by an unsuccessful quest. All the afternoon, they had been searching for Mary's lost dog, Dopey.
Yet, although it was growing dark, with a biting wind and a scurry of snow flakes. Mary stopped to gaze up at the lighted windows of "The Chestnuts."
"Could you find anything more hopelessly commonplace than that house?" she asked. "And the mayor isn't a bit like a Great Lover, with his red face and his bawdy jokes. But he's been faithful to one woman, John, I want our love to be like that."
John pressed the hand tucked through his arm to show that he understood, As they stood in the keen blue twilight, they were a well-matched pair—endowed with health, good-looks and youth—and fit pioneers for the New World which held their future.
In spite of the fact that "The Chestnuts" was within the Municipal radius and had main-water and electricity, its position was both exposed and lonely. It was the last impost of the town, for beyond it stretched the moor—now practically deserted because, of the snow, On the other side of it was a half-mile of road, dimly-lit with widely-spaced lamp-posts, which linked it up with the residential suburbs of Pooksmoor.
Although is was the most romantic dwelling in the district—and a monument to a lover's fidelity—its appearance was prosaic. Solidly-built of grey stone, with a short drive of red gravel and a belt of laurels to screen its lawn from the road, it looked exactly what it was designed to be—a prosperous middle-class residence.
Over thirty years ago the Mayor of the town had built it for the girl he was going to marry. Just before their wedding, however, she had died from undiagnosed appendicitis and was buried in her wedding dress.
The Mayor never lived in the house, but he kept it exactly as it was&madash;as a shrine to her memory. With the exception of silver plate and jewelry—which might attract burglars—he arranged all her wedding presents about the rooms. Nothing was changed nor allowed to deteriorate from disuse. A woman cleaned and aired it regularly, but no one else was allowed to enter It.
This was the Mayor's private sanctuary, which he visited regularly, so that passers-by were used to seeing its lighted windows and hearing the music from the wireless. But although he remained unmarried, he did not behave as though his life were blighted. He found occasional consolation in liquor and always kept whisky on the premises. A telephone, too. was installed, so that he could be informed of any business or municipal development that might arise during his absence from his office.
AS the lovers lingered on the snowy road, the music ceased and the upper windows were plunged into darkness. Shortly afterward, the lower lights were switched off and they heard the slam of the front door. Then the Mayor crunched down [he drive and pushed open the gate. He was a huge, bull-necked man. athletic still in spite of his over-weight. His face was red and his walk not quite steady, but his smile beamed genuine welcome.
"Still courting?" he shouted. "When are you young people going to do your duty?"
"Were going to he married in the New Year," Mary told him.
"Directly afterward, we're sailing to Canada," added John.
"So you're getting used to snow, eh? But you mustn't go on the moor alone, Mary, until this confounded Convict 193 has been caught."
"Isn't he a nuisance?" she agreed. "John won't let me stir without him. Our farm's in a very lonely part, so I must get used to taking risks. I'm not afraid."
"This chap's a human tiger." remarked the Mayor, "leaving behind him a trail of victims.
"Only last night I was betting the governor of the prison that he'd slip through their fingers. He's got hi« belly full of food and clothes no one can identify. All he needs is cash to make a getaway."
Then he wrinkled his brow.
"I'd a queer notion, just now." he said. "I wondered if he has used this place. He's hidden somewhere this bitter spell."
"Too near the town, sir," objected John. "Besides, isn't it burglar-proof?"
"Technically only. He could easily pick one of these old-fashioned locks, And tonight, the whisky either underproof or someone has watered it. Maybe I'm losing my grip. I've half a mind to come out to Canada with you."
"The town couldn't spare you sir*
"That's right, The town made me, so I have to stick to the town. Besides I couldn't leave this."
He Jerked his thumb towards "The Chestnuts" Then, because his whisky had made him sentimental, he retold them the story with which they were so familiar.
"I was about your age, John, when I bought this house. It was the last word in modern improvements then. Mabel was proud of it. We went up to London together to buy our furniture and she was in most days, arranging things and finishing the twiddley bits. We used to sit here in the evenings. We would turn on the lights and put a record on the gramophone and pretend we were married. All the family-life I ever had. You know how it ended."'
"What was she like?" asked Mary softly.
"She was a real woman. Your the nearest to her I've met. But my girl was a lady and wore white petticoats with lace frills."
The Mayor grimaced at Mary's dark-blue trousers and leather coat, as he made two vague semi-circles with his hands.
"Mabel came out here and here." he explained. "But her waist was only twenty inches. She'd the sweetest temper, but she was the boss. If she lived, there would be no more wet Lodge-nights for me."
Suddenly Mary dared to say what was in her mind.
"Mr. Mayor, I know it sounds precious, but—Mabel is a real person to me. She's been sort of an inspiration, when people make love sound cheap, with their silly jokes. I never pass here without thinking of her. Before I go to Canada, may I go over to her house alone? Indeed, its not idle curiosity."
There was a long pause before the Mayor spoke in a choked voice,
"Nobody has ever gone there except me and the woman who cleans. But—yes. I'm going up to London for a couple of days and you shall have my key."
He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper as he placed the key in her hand.
"I could have sold the house times and times again." he confided. "But I kept it empty, for us to meet. It's a fancy of course, but when I sit there, in her drawing-room and look at her photograph, I don't feel quite so lonely. You listen to me both of you. It may sound funny talk from an old chap that gets tight, but love is the only thing that counts."
He glanced at his watch and added in a matter-of-fact manner. "I'm expecting my car. Can I give you a lift back?"
They refused this offer from an instinctive feeling that he wanted to be alone. As they watched his Rolls-Royce drive off amid a whirl of snowflakes, John spoke to Mary.
"Poor old chap. He's rich—and we've not even begun to be poor—but we've everything."
"Except Dopey," Mary reminded him.
WHILE Dopey possessed all the endearing canine qualities, he had one grave fault; he was gripped periodically by a pioneer spirit which caused him to forsake home and family, in search of a new empire.
It was true that hitherto he had always returned—thin and hungry and ready to admit that, in spite of all its faults, the old country home was best. But this time his return was so long overdue that Mary had almost given up hope.
When she reached home that evening she ran into the house, calling out her usual question. "Has Dopey come back?"
"Not yet," her mother told her. "But he will"
She spent another broken night, listening for his return. Every time she awoke, she strained her ears for the sound of his bark, and once the went downstairs and opened the front door, in the hope of finding him outside.
The next afternoon the baker knocked at the door.
"Dog still missing?" he asked. "Wonder if it was him I heard this morning when I was doing my round on the moor. I fancied there was a sort of whining coming from the old shepherd's hut."
"Thanks. But I've heard so many of these tales. Dopey seems to have been everywhere except at his home."
But when he had gone, she told herself that, in spite of so many false rumors, this latest story might be actual fact. If Dopey had crawled to the hut and was lying there, starved and exhausted, she was leaving him to die.
At last she could endure the suspense no longer. John was away at a market and there was no one she could ask to accompany her. Besides the hut was about a mile out on the moor and not much daylight remained.
FROM the moment she pulled on her snow-boots, she began a relentless race with time. Soon she was running past the select residences of the suburb. The houses with their snow-capped roofs and white-muffled gardens looked snug and comfortable in contrast with the leaden sky and the drift of flakes which powdered her hair and Hew into her eyes.
She was almost blinded when she reached the stretch of lonely road which led to "The Chestnuts." On one side was the high stone wall of Pooksmoor Park and on the other flowed the cold gray slide of the river.
The present gripped her and her mind was possessed only by Dopey and his need. The moor rose in a long, gruelling climb and when the summit was reached it dipped down again to a deep fold in the landscape.
It was a relief to jog down the hill, holding her side, until she reached the slatey trickle of a small river at the bottom. It looked bitterly cold, for icicles formed a stiff fringe dropping from the arch of the bridge, but she had grown so hot that her hair was plastered in damp rings on her brow.
On the other side, the moor rose in a steeper slope, like a white wall. Once again she toiled upward, impelled by thoughts of her dog and repeating hid name foolishly, as though it were a spell.
"Dopey, Dopey "
Suddenly there was a break in the clouds and the sky grew lighter. To her joy. she realized that the storm was about to clear. As she climbed higher, she could see the stone pile of the ruined hut standing out against the skyline.
Without a thought of personal peril, she left the tracks and plowed over snowy mounds of heather, calling the dog's name.
THERE was no answering bark to encourage her. Appalled by the silence and dreading what she might discover inside, she forced herself to enter the aperture of the ruin.
At first, it was almost a relief to find the place empty. At least, Dopey had not starved to death in the cold. The next moment she awoke from her dream of hope to the dull ache of yet another disappointment.
"I might have known it," she thought bitterly. "Just some of the baker's fun. The sooner I get hack the better."
For the first time she remembered that an escaped convict was somewhere at large and that the light was fading rapidly. She was about to reach the road again, when she chanced to look across the white wilderness, stretching deeper into the heart of the moor.
On the opposite rise, silhouetted blackly against the sky, was the figure of a man.
Although he was a considerable distance away, he stood out clearly, magnified by atmospheric conditions. There was something so menacing about the solitary shape—brooding over the waste—that her heart began to flutter with fear.
"It might be any harmless country man," she told herself. "It need not he the convict."
As she watched him, the man suddenly disappeared from view, as though he had dropped down to the ground. It was an ominous development, for it seemed to signify that he knew he was being observed. In that case, it was certain that she. in her turn was visible to him.
As she strained her eyes, she distinguished something dark moving over the while surface of the opposite slope. There appeared to be no doubt that the man was running in an effort to overtake her.
If it were really a race between them, he was bound to win in spite of her long start. She was already tired from her sprint against time. Even if she could out-distance him on the moor, which was chiefly downhill, there remained the long stretch of lonely road between the stone wall and the river.
Although it seemed madness to forsake the road and run the risk of being lost, just when dusk was falling, she decided to drop down into a gully and chance her luck in reaching the bottom without a broken limb. Running some way down the slope, so that she, too, might be lost to view, she turned to the left and ploughed over the snow until she reached the steep side of a cleft.
In her excitement, she lost all sense of danger, as she slipped recklessly down the almost vertical incline—rolling, bumping, sliding, More than once she came perilously near to breaking her neck, but she always managed to save herself from disaster, up to the moment when her heels slid under her and she shot headlong into a narrow lane.
SHE scrambled to her feet, to find that she was miraculously intact. The moor now rose high above her, shielding her from observation. Although she sank up to her knees in drifted snow, she knew that she would cut off two-thirds of the distance covered by the winding moorland road.
The next twenty minutes were a test of strenuous endurance. Every muscle, nerve and sinew was strained to its utmost as she ploughed a way through the choked gully. Presently, to her joy, the surface grew better as the lane began to wind upwards, until she saw the chimneys of Mabel's House.
Soon afterwards she reached the tradesmen's entrance at the back, where she stopped to consider her next step. Although she hoped the man had given her up as lost quarry, she had to be certain that she had shaken him off. Keeping in the shadow of the garden wall, she crept forward until she was able to peer around the corner.
To her horror, she saw the back of a man. He was crouched on a spot from where he could watch the house, the moorland road and the approach to town. Although he was dressed in ordinary country clothes, waterproof and tweed cap—there was such a suggestion of vulpine cunning in his pose that she knew instinctively that he was Convict 193.
Suddenly she remembered that the Mayor had given her a key to the house. Fortunately it was buttoned up inside an inner pocket of her leather coat and had not been shaken out by her fall. Opening the back gate with the utmost caution, and stooping until she was bent nearly double, she worked her way around the side of the house until she reached the front door.
The key turned easily in the lock and she slipped into the hall, taking care to shut the door with the minimum of sound.
BEFORE she shut out the dying daylight she had seen the outline of the telephone on the hall-table. Groping through the darkness she rang up the Exchange.
"Police station," she whispered. Her call was put through without delay. Breathless with haste, she gasped out her story. To her dismay, the official at the other end of the wire appeared maddeningly sceptical and was concerned chiefly in repeating her statement to ensure accuracy. At the end, he told her to hold the line while he was reporting the matter and left her in an agony of suspense.
When he returned, his manner was different and showed that he had changed from a machine to a human-being.
"There's nothing to worry about." he assured her. "We have the matter in hand. Police cars are already on their way to 'The Chestnuts.' And we've got through to the prison. Now what about you. miss? Are you safe?"
"Perfectly safe," she replied. "He doesn't know I'm here. Besides, how could he get inside a locked house? He couldn't suspect I had a key."
"Is there any room where you can lock yourself in?" he asked,
"I shouldn't think so. The house has been empty for years and the locks must be rusty.
"Try them at once. If you can't find a key that turns, hide yourself at the top of the house. And mind you don't show a light, or make any noise."
After the man had rung off. the darkness did not seem quite so secure to Mary.
She groped her way to the nearest door, but, as she had expected, the key was rusted in the lock. She tried two others, with the same result. Then something seemed to stir behind her in the darkness, as suddenly she remembered the Mayors remark about the vulnerability of the house.
At the thought of all the unshuttered windows on the ground floor, a gust of fear shook her, as a terrier worries a rat. With an instinctive craving for reassurance, she stole back to the telephone and gave John's number to the exchange,
AS a matter-of-fact, he was expecting her to ring him up. He had just returned home and was unlacing his boots when he heard the bell. Stumbling across to the instrument, directly he recognized her voice, he broke in excitedly.
"Isn't it great about old Dopey?"
"Dopey?" she repeated dully.
"What? Don't you know he's come back? Where are you?"*
"Mabel's House.... I've been chased by the convict. He's outside now—watching the road for me."
John's face paled as he listened to her breathless tale. It seemed to him that there remained one chance only to save her and that was to put up a desperate bluff. She must attempt to confuse the criminal and make him suspect a trap, in order to gain those priceless minutes of respite before the arrival of the police.
While he hesitated, he was goaded on to action by the merciless logic of the situation. The convict was still uncaptured mainly because he had left no witness in a fit state to give information about him. He had broken in. robbed and beaten up his victims, leaving them unconscious and in several cases, on the point of death; but by the time the crime was discovered, he had traveled miles from the scene. It was certain that Mary would not be spared the fate of those others.
The muscles throbbed in his cheeks as he cleared his throat.
"Mary." he said thickly, "I want you to snap on all the lights in the house. At once."
He heard her gasp in dismay.
"You must be mad!" she cried. "The police told me to hide in the dark."
"That's no good. You must trust me. Your only chance is to fool him. Turn on the wireless, too. Make him think the Mayor's in the house."
"I—I dare not. It's just telling him I'm here."
"Mary—he knows that already."
Again he heard the faint wail of dismay which told him that she realised her peril.
"All right," she said faintly. "I will. I only hope you are right."
"That's my brave girl. I'm coming to you now."
As he rang off. Mary felt desolate and abandoned to her fate. She was alone in a strange, hostile darkness, while outside stretched the menace of the twilight moor. Sure that she was signing her own death warrant, she switched on the nearest light.
Immediately she found herself transported back into another world of more than thirty years ago. The hall was a formal polished place which faintly reproached her for a breach of decorum in entering unannounced. Its floor was composed of alternate black and white marble flags, covered with red and blue Turkey rugs. There was a massive mahogany hall-stand, while a big carved bear from Switzerland held out a salver for her visiting-card.
In spite of her panic, she was sustained by a strong sense of unreality which made her feel that she must be exploring a house in a dream. It was almost with a throb of anticipation that she opened two other doors and switched on the lights. The dining-room with its suite upholstered in dull purple leather and its gilded walls must have been a daring departure from convention.
As she gazed at it, Mary could almost imagine that she was accompanied by an invisible hostess who was proud to do the honors of her house. Then the present returned in a rush of fear. John had said "All the lights."
In a panic, she darted up the first flight of stairs, which—like the square landing at the top—was carpeted with thick blue Axminster. Panting like a hunted fugitive, she left behind her a betraying trail of light.
Out of the darkness flashed the grandeur of the spare room, with its walnut suite and amber satin bedspread and curtains. Then Mary was arrested by what was evidently Mabel's room, The carpet had a mauve ground—covered with pink roses—and the furniture was French.
When she entered the drawing-room she felt that she had reached Mabel's own domain. This was where she used to sit with her lover and dream of the future. Soft lights, low music and all around her accumulated treasures. She fell safe there, since it was impossible that it could be the scene of outrage or crime.
Mary was struck by the fact that everything was arranged as though the mistress of the house was still in residence. A copy of Punch lay on the divan, beside a piece of drawn-thread work, stretched on a frame. On a small table was a big box of chocolates, tied with a festive yellow ribbon. The clock kept perfect time, while the calendar in its silver frame was up-to-date with the month.
An enlarged photograph of Mabel hung above the mantelpiece. She was a pretty girl with a good crop of hair piled high on her head in a profusion of rolled curls. Her eyes were maternally kind, her lips sweet yet firm, while from her full bust and rounded chin it was easy to see that she indulged a weakness for cream-puffs.
Underneath the photograph was placed a vase of Neapolitan violets which perfumed the air.
Gazing at the portrait, Mary lost all sense of peril as she thought of the woman who had planned this mom. Unlike a modern girl, she had never earned a penny. Marriage was her natural goal. And now. when she ought to be fussing over her grandchildren, she was only a memory kept ever green by the Mayor's devotion—expressed in a house.
Suddenly remembering John's instruction, Mary turned on the wireless and the strains of a Mayfair hotel orchestra flooded the air. Up in London, fashionable folk were dancing at their tea. It was impossible to realize the fact as she examined the relics of Mabel's last visit to her house. The linen of the needlework was yellow and the chocolates looked like fawn wax.
The copy of Punch—then the current number—was dated January the third, 1901. Seated on the divan, Mary began to turn its pages. Soon she lost all sense of her surroundings in her enjoyment of the jokes, so that she never heard footsteps—muffled by the thick pile of the carpet—which were mounting the stairs.
A smile was still on her lips when she looked up at the sound of the opening door.
WHILE the police were dashing along the snowy roads, and while John was getting out his motor-cycle in an effort to overtake them, the convict stood staring up at Mabel's House. He had ceased to watch the moor, for he knew now that the would not come that way.
There was nothing in his appearance to suggest his prison association, while his description—issued by the police over the air—might have been that of any listener. Unfortunately it was not possible to establish what he wore. His first escapade was an attack on a lonely house, where he stocked himself with food and clothing: but as the maltreated tenant was still unconscious in hospital, no one knew what was missing from his wardrobe.
Pursuing the same tactics of cunning and cruelty, Convict 193 had reached the fringe of civilization, he could walk through the streets of Pooksmoor by might and reach the railway station unchallenged, since he had no blemish or peculiarity to betray him; but he still lacked the money to pay his fare. Once he was in London, he could get in touch with his gang and get the benefit of their resources.
Therefore—his need of money was urgent and desperate; and when he saw Mary's outline against the sky his hopes flamed high. He knew that no woman in her senses would walk for pleasure on the moor in the present circumstances. The conclusion was that she was a cottager who was venturing to the town, to buy household stores, in which case she would have a purse, which was as good as his.
This time, however. It was essential not only to silence her for good, but to conceal her body so that it would not be discovered until after his train had arrived at the London Terminus.
When he failed to overtake her on the moor, he thought, at first that she had doubled on her track and returned to some cottage tucked away in a pocket of the waste; but, during the last few minutes, her disappearance was no longer a mystery.
He knew exactly where she had gone—just as he knew that she was inside the lonely house....
HE was about to steal around to the back, to force a window, when suddenly, he was arrested by a flood of light from the ground floor. One after another, the windows became glowing frames of illuminations. Then—muted by the screen of glass—the faint sound of music became audible.
Growling like an animal—baffled by guardian bars, when on the spring—he cursed his luck. In spite of telephone-wires and curtained windows, he believed this house to be temporarily empty, Two nights before, emboldened by its darkness, he had forced an entry, but only to find a completely bare larder.
All he had gained was a lodging for the night and a tot of whisky, On this occasion, he had left no traces of his visit and had craftily filled up the bottle of spirits with water. Now—all the evidence pointed to occupation. The woman could not be alone. If she were hiding from him, she would not betray her secret by flashing him a signal.
Suddenly he scented a plot. She had been sent out on the moor, on purpose to lure him to this place. Inside was a posse of warders from the prison, waiting to seize him directly he ventured near.
For several minutes he lingered, staring up at the windows in the hope of solving the mystery. As the time passed and nothing further happened, he began to reject the possibility of a planned capture. The fact that he had not been re-arrested was proof that his movements were unknown. Certainly the police would not expect to find him so near the town.
The explanation was that the woman did not know that she had been followed and was turning on the lights in the normal way. Meanwhile, he had to get money. The chances were that the woman might have some, either on her person or hidden in the house.
Creeping around to the back of the house, he peered through every window in turn. Kitchen, scullery and larders—all were dark and silent. There was no evidence of the servants such as the importance of the house would entail.
He decided to pick the old-fashioned lock of the side-door through which he had made his previous enhance. Although it was an elementary operation for his talents, some skill and patience were needed. Engrossed by his task, he never noticed when the police closed in on him, from two sides of the house.
JOHN—when he arrived on the scene a few minutes later—dashed upstairs in search of Mary. He expected to find her badly shaken by her ordeal; but, to his great relief, he burst open the drawing-room door, to find her smiling over a copy of Punch.
"They've got him!" he shouted. "Thank God you had the courage to turn on the lights."
"I was a bit scared," she confessed.
He felt her shudder in his arms: but the next minute, her face grew radiant with happiness.
"Oh, John," she cried. "I've just remembered something marvellous. I didn't realize it at the time. But when I rang you up, you told me that Dopey has come home."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.