THE LUCK OF THE LINDSAYS

New Zealand Times, Volume LIII, Issue 12615, 27 November 1926, Page 9

THE LUCK OF THE LINDSAYS

BY MARGARET TYNDALE [C O P Y R I G H T.]

(PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.)

CHAPTER XXI.—JULIA PAYS. Julia let herself into the tint with a feeling that it was no use trying to keep up pretences any longer; that all the world must know before very long that her husband was a gambler and a trickster. Whatever lovo she had oil CO imagined that sho bad bad for him was now utterly dead, for his .treatment of her during these last few weeks had killed even the smallest reeling of respect, much less of affection. As she had half expected, Gordon was sitting before a smoky firo in their small drawing-room, the halfburnt end of a cigarette between his lips. “Well,” he said abruptly, as she began to take off her hat, rather clumsily it must be confessed, since she was obliged to use only one hand, “have you made up your mind?" “Yes,” was the firm reply. “And your answer is?” “No.” “So you defy me, oh?” he said harshly, throwing the end of his cigarette into the untidy fireplace, “You forget that you are my wife. I suppose, and that yon have promised to pbev me in all things!” “I cannot obey you in these two things, whatever you may say—or do.’’ 'As she uttered the last two words the girl threw hack her head defiantly.

and there was a ring of scorn in her fresh young voice that goaded her husband almost beyond endurance. “It was an accident,” he said doggedly, endeavouring to be calm, and as he spoke his eyes wandered to her bandaged arm, not without a slight sense of shame it must be confessed. “And it was entirely your own fault.” “I should advise you to bo more careful in future.” put in Julia, with a sudden return to her former sharp tones. “You wouldn’t like it to be said that you were in the habit of knocking your wife about, even if you are a ” Gordon sprang to his feet with an oath. “If you dare to say the word. I’ll kill you,” ho hissed. “Now listen to me 1 If you don’t decide to do one or the other of the things I’ve asked vou. you don’t stay hero another day. Do vou know how much we’ve got in the whole wide world?—exactly five pounds ten shillings and sixpence! Wc owe six weeks’ rent for this flat, and the money has got to come from somewhere. It rests with you to decide. Either you write and ask your stepmother for some, or you agree to do what I asked you last xight ” Julia faced him squarely as she answered with undisguised coldness: “Please understand me once and for

all; I refuse to asik my step-mother for help; I refuse quite a a much to assist you in luring Edward Conyngham here in order that he may be robbed by you. I may have done rash and unkind things in my life, but I’ve never swindled anyone, or spent monev that didn’t belong to me as you did when we were first married.. Oh, please don’t trouble to contradict me; I know perfectly well where all my money went. And not content with robbing your wife, you would do your best to rob.,one of her best friends; but, thank goodness, he is much too clever to lot you have your own way there.” “Yes, and I’ve got you to thank for that. You have done your best to ruin me all along. You have been rude to my abruptly, for Julia had risen to her feet and walked wearily towards the door. “Oh, please don’t repeat things like that to me, you’ve said them so many times before,” she said wearily. “I’m going to lie down, my arm’s aching terribly.” Her nonchalance irritated Gordon exceedingly, but the result of his former forgetfulness of himself was still very patent, and he curbed his anger as best he could, determining to renew the discussion and bring it to a decisive issue later on in the evening. He therefore made up his mind to go out, thinking that by the time he came back his wife would be more willing to listen to reason. He returned about twelve, not quite as sober as he had gone out, and decidedly quarrelsome. The sound cf his fumbling attempts to put his key into the lock of the outer door awoke his wife, who had been sleeping heavily. She had not undressed, for the pain in her arm was so great that it caused her to dread an operation which she knew would tend to cause her further suffering. For the greater part of the evening she had lain lisr tening to the noise of the traffic in the street below, and soothed after a time by this strange lullaby, she had fallen into a heavy, dreamless sleep. The flood of electric light which her

husband turned on from the switch by the door as he entered, almost blinded her, and for a moment she blinked like a frightened animal. “You’d Detter get up and write that letter to your step-mother, Julia,” said Gordon, apparently having no regard or understanding of the proper time for letter-writing. “I can’t write any letter to-night, I’m tired,” repliod the girl, sitting up with difficulty. “To-morrow, then?” he urged. “I can’t sajr,” she said slowly, feeling it wiser in his present condition not to oppose fcim too openly. “Look here, my girl, I want that letter written to-night—d’you hear? I’ll stand no more humbug. I must have money, your step-mother has got plenty and won’t miss what she sends you. You can say you want to buy a new hat, or something silly.” , “In that case I should t>hink it would be more suitable to ask for a couple of pounds, instead of some hundreds as you want me to do,” put in the girl, as she scrambled from the bed and began to take the pins from her hair, a hint she hoped her husband would take if he were at all sensible. But he made no effort to leave her. “Oh dear, I am so tired, and my arm i is too painful for words, so do please be reasonable,” she said, hardly know- ■ ing how to deal with the situation. ! She spoke as naturally and quietly' as she could, but somehow she began to get restless at her husband’s curious silence. He seemed to be regarding her with unnatural intentness. “Don’t look at me like that, Stanley,” she said after a moment, when she could stand the strain, no longer, and began to laugh somewhat hysterically in her terror. “Are you going to write that letter?” he asked suddenly, as he came and stood quite near her. “My stepmother is away as you j know——” began Julia hesitatingly. “Will you come and write that letter?” he asked again, this time a littlo louder. “No, I can’t”; and hardly know-

ing what she was doing, Julia turned to her mirror. But a second later she screamed in horror, for she had caught the reflection of her husband’s face as he stood panting behind her. She had not time to turn round, for maddened by what lie took to be her defiance, he caught her by the arm and deaf to her entreaties to release her, he dragged her into the hall beyond. He had some difficulty in opening the outer door, but when at last he succeeded in doing so, Julia felt that her last hour had come, for his eyes were like those of a man insane. Then, as in some horrible nightmare, she felt herself thrown forward; there was a sharp stinging pain, in her arm, followed almost immediately by a blissful unconsciousness of her most unhappy condition. Somewhere from the shadows she heard the bang as of a closing door, then the clouds that enveloped her senses blotted out all thought, and to her it might have been hours later or only a few moments —as indeed it was—that she recovered sufficiently to realise that she was lying huddled up at the foot of a short flight of stone steps, and that two people in evening dress were bending over her. together with the lift attendant and the hall porter. The woman was regarding her anxiously, face white with the horror of the scene she had just witnessed. “Do you think she’s hurt, Jack?” Julia heard her say to her companion, a tall, kind-eyed man of about forty. “What a disgraceful tiling for a man to do I” “Look here, Phyllis,” said her husband, “just help me to carry her to our room. There will be no end of a scandal o-ver this, I am afraid. No, no, my man,” he added to the porter who hastened to offer his assistance, “my wife will help me—this lady is very light”—by which Jack Montague meant to imply in a polite manner that he preferred the gentle touch of the woman he had married a few months before, to that of the well-in-tentioned though somewhat clumsy attendant. “Here’s the key,” he added, “ —no, don’t ring, you’ll wake the

maid’ ’; and he thereupon thrust intoi the man’s hand a bunch of keys, pointing to one which fitted the lock as he! did so. “This one—yes,’’ he said hastily ; ‘ ‘turn it to the left, not the right, and he careful not to make a noise.” So, as quietly and as gently as possible, Jack Montague, with his wife's assistance, raised Julia, who was again unconscious, and carried her to the flat they occupied, which was fortunately on that particular floor. “Mind—not a word of this to anyone, Patterson,” said Montague, in a warning undertone, when Julia had been carried to the dainty bedroom. “There must be no scandal for this lady’s sake.” The porter nodded in affirmation, knowing that it would pay him well to do as Mr Montague commanded him, rather than yield to the temptation to gossip about the scene he had witnessed, an act which would in all probabil-' ity lose him his job into the bargain When the man had gone. Montague, returned to his wife, and the two stood looking down at Julia’s unconscious form with eyes that were full of sincere pity. “Quite a child. Jack,” said Phyllis Montague, tears of indignation rushing to her beautiful eyes. “Shall I put her to bed?” “It would be better,” answered her husband practically, without a thought as to his own comfort. “But what about you, dear?’’ asked his wife, a little anxiously. “You’ve got that case on to-morrow, and will need all the rest you can get. Do you think the spare room will be comfortable enoughs” “The dining-room table will do quite well for me,” he answered, with a smile, and began to put his white evening tie straight as if preparing to go out again. “For the doctor,” he explained, as he saw his wife’s look of inquiry. “This child can’t be left like this —she’ll die from shock if we’re not careful. Good-bye, darling, for the present; don’t make up too big a fire,” he added warningly, as lie went out of the room. It was a somewhat difficult matter for Phyllis Montague to remove Julia’s dress, and she was forced to rip open the sleeve of the injured arm in order to save both time and trouble. But at last she had accomplished her task, and sat waiting anxiously for her husband’s return. As she heard his key ip the lock, she slipped quietly out into the hall and held up a warning finger, in case either he or the doctor might make any undue noise. Then, followed by the two men, she tip-toed hack to the bedroom. “Arm broken, my dear Montague,” said Doctor Crewe laconically, when he had made a brief examination of bis patient. “That kind-hearted husband of hers has done his work well. I’m afraid you’re in for a nice job.” “Think sop” asked Jack Montague quietly, “Well, I know Phyllis won’t make any bones about it.” Geoffrey Crewe looked at Mrs Montague and smiled as he opened his bag to find restoratives. He was a kind-hearted young man who iwas already beginning to be known in his profession, although his brusque, plain-spoken manner was sometimes a barrier to the retaining of his wealthier patients. But he had known Jack Montague and his wife for years, and so they understood him, and never took the least offence at his bluntness. Having set the broken arm with swift, deft fingers, Doctor Crewe proceeded to administer restoratives, and in a few minutes Julia opened, her eyes, to moan with pain as she became conscious of her injury. The young doctor took apparently no notice of her, however, and almost roughly ordered his friend's wife away as she ventured to soothe the girl. Seeing that his patient was in need of nerve-soothing sleep, he gave her a draught that should have this desired effect, and a lew moments later the youpg doctor hurried away to another case, to which he had been on the point of getting out when his friend had summoned him to Mrs Gordon’s aid. “Crewe says you’re not to tire yourself needlessly, Phyllis,” said Jack Montague, as he returned to the sick room after letting his friend out. “Now, take my advice and go to bed —l’ll see to your little patient.” “No thanks, dear,” was the instant reply. “I have studied home-nursing and you haven’t, and I shall be ever so much happier if I feel that you are resting. Now, be off, young man,” she added lightly. “I want to change my dress. An evening toilette is not altogether suitable fora sick-room you know.” She kissed him tenderly on tho forehead as she spoke, and then put him gently out of the room; but he did not go to bed as she fondly supposed. Instead, he sat in the cold dining-room with his overcoat on, and every time the clock chimed the hour he stole quietly out into the corridor and peeped warily round the door of the bedroom, in order to satisfy himself that his wife was doing her duty—so he told himself —but in reality to gaze at the beautiful, pale face of the woman he loved, as she bent tenderly over her patient. His wife found him dozing uncomfortably in his chair in the chilly dining-room about six the next morning, and scolded him severely for his foolishness; hut he did not mind. (To he Continued.)