The Splendid Sacrifice

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 214, 29 November 1927, Page 5

The Splendid Sacrifice

By

J. B. Harris-Burland.

Author of: “ The Half-Closed Door/* “The Black Moon/* “The Felgate Taint” “ The Poison League.” Ac., &c

CHAPTER I. “I can’t bear it!” sobbed Mrs. Eden. “Oh, I can’t bear the loss of my dear little Joan. She’s like—like sunshine in the house—it will be all dark when she has gone. And lam so ill—l need cheering up. Mary, dear, you might get me my smelling salts from the bedroom, and isn’t it time you began to cook the dinner?” “Hot yet, mother dear,” Mary Eden replied gently. “Joan wants it early,” Mrs. Eden continued in a peevish voice. “Sir Richard is going to take her to the theatre. Of course, I couldn’t ask him to dinner here. How could I? I don’t supposo he could eat anything you cooked. Please get me the smelling salts, and my bottle of eau de cologne —and a handkerchief, dear. I’ve wet this one quite through—just as if I’d dropped it in the river. What shall I do when Joan has left us?” Mary made no reply to this question. She left the small but charming little oak-beamed drawing-room, and made her way upstairs. She did not hurry. She was quite aware that there was * no need for haste—that her mother had achieved the one desire of her life —the marriage of Joan to a rich man: that all this distress was really a pose—a stupid, conventional 1 °The smelling salts and the bottle of eau de cologne were on the dressingtable of the only decent-sized bedroom in the little house. The Edens had been comfortably off before the war, but the fall in the value of money had reduced them to poverty. They could no longer afford a servant, and every penny had to be looked at twice before it was spent. They were just and only just—able to live, and show a brave front to the little world of Mirchester that dull, ‘narrow-minded cathedral world, in which they had once played a bigger part. Canon Eden, a quiet, scholarly man ol no "reat attainments, had died in 191 o, and had left liis small estate in trust His widow and daughters were still of the elect, and they had the good fortune to live in a town where there were no profiteers and many restricted in- - Even bishops and deans were poor in those days. But in the cathedral ••circle” there were none so poor as the Edens, none so proud of their name so anxious to hold up their heads md weather the storm of high prices. Mary “railed as she looked in the mirror that stood on her mothers '•l-nssintr-tuble. She saw a shapely figure neither broad nor slim, neither Short nor tall. Well-built and well-,-tinned the girl’s body had been strengthened' by hard, physical work. Her hands were neither red nor seamed for she always wore gloves wh.m she blacked grates and did the rougher tasks of tlie house. At the m-esent moment her finely-moulded ■ms vere bare to the elbows and she was wearing a blue overall. She saw all this in the mirror, and the sight oC it did not displease her As for her face .she was quite satisfied with it. ' wms not very beautiful like Joan, but she was good to look upon, if only for her fine, honest, grey eyes, and her completion, and her brown hair soft as spun Silk, and glittering like silk when the sunlight fell upon it. Anyone who had see a picture ot her that same picture she was regarding in the mirror—would have said This s the sort of girl one would like to have by one when there was trouble knocking about." Endurance she certainly had. for she had had much to

endure. With an invalid mother, and a sister who endeavoured to extract the last ounce of pleasure from life, every burden of this household had been placed on Mary Eden’s shoulders. Only a sunny disposition and a certain sense of humour had carried her through years of drudgery with a smile upon her lips. And perhaps her love for Joan had helped her. Joan was a fragile little thing or rare beauty, and combined selfishness with sweetness of temper in a remarkable degree. Mary picked up the green bottle of smelling salts and the wicker-cased flask of eau de cologne, and walked along the passage until she came to Joan’s bedroom. Here she paused for a moment, knocked at the door, and, receiving no answer,, entered the room. She saw Joan lying full length on the bed, her face buried between her arms. And Joan was sobbing—Joan who so rarely cried, who so rarely had any cause for tears. Mary closed the door and seated hei'self on the bed. “What’s up, Jackie?” she said. “The mater is crying downstairs, and here you are—crying upstairs. One would tl»ink someone was dead.” “I—l can’t bear it!” sobbed Joan, and Mary smiled as she remembered her mother’s words. “I—l simply can’t bear it!” “Leaving home?” queried Mary. “Oh, Jackie, don’t be absurd. You’re going to have the time of your life.” She laid her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Look at me,” she said sternly, “and tell me that you prefer living here to being Lady Pynson, with £20,000 a year and a house in the country and a house in town.” Joan turned over on her side, and looked Mary straight in the face. “I don’t even like him. Mary said. “I don’t evn like him. Mary, you won’t breathe a word of what I am going to tell you to anyone else?” “Of course not, Jackie.” “Well, I hate myself for marrying Richard.” “You’d rather stay on here, eh?” “No, I’m marrying to get out of this rotten hole. And I want money—l want everything that money can buy. You know me,well enough, Mary-” Mary was quite practical. “My dear child,” she said, “there’s a great deal to like in Richard, and he’s really fond of you. You’ll soon get to love him.” “Never—l—l’m afraid of him. And then; —” The girl paused, and the colour came into her white, tear-stained face. And Mary looking at her, thought what an exquisite creature it was that God had made. The perfect little face, the red lips the large dark eyes, the hair black and abundant and glistening like the plumage of a bird. “The little elf,” Joan had been called as a child. And there was something of the elf about her still. Small and fragile and yet full of vitality, there was an indefinable charm about all her movements. Only —at times —was there a certain hardness in the eyes.

It was there now. The tears were soon dried. The storm of passion was soon over. Joan sprang off the bed and stood before her sister, her little hands clenched, and that curiously hard look in her eyes. “And then, Jackie?” said Mary, after a long silence. “Oh, nothing; I'm a fool! Of course, I’m going to marry Richard, if it’s only to get me out of this. And Richard will help us all to get out of this.” “Ah, you are sacrificing yourself. Jackie—for us?” “No. It wouldn't be any good telling

you that. You know me, Mary. I want beautiful, expensive things. I must have them. I believe I’d steal to get them. I can’t keep my eyes off jewellery. I can stand and look at jewels in a shop window —stand there for an hour. I’m like that.”

Mary scarcely listened to this speech. She was a girl who could not from her purpose. And her purpose, at present, was to find out why Joan had been crying. “Jackie,” she said after a pause, “you’re not in love with someone else?” “Yes, I am. Don’t you dare say a word about it. I wouldn’t have told anyone but you.” “Who is it?” Mary asked, bluntly. “I won’t tell y6u. But lie’s poor—he hasn’t even got as much money as we have. I can’t marry him.” “You can both wait.” “No,” said Joan. “What’s the good of waiting? He’ll never come into anv money.” Jt “I suppose he can earn some “Yes, if he’d work.” “Ah, he’s a rotter, is he?” “You might call him that; but whatever he is, lie’s the man I’m in love with.” Mar” smiled. This love affair did not seem to be at all serious. “Of course,” slie said, after a pause, “you’re not going to break off your engagement to Richard—because of this?” “Of course not. I’m going to marry Richard, but I shall be very unhappy. Mary, swear to me you’ll tell no one of this—of what I’ve told you.” “Oh, I shall keep your secret, Jackie.” There was the loud ringing of an electric bell on the landing. It had been placed there for the convenience of Mrs. Eden and the bell-push at the other end of the wire lay close Mrs. Eden’s hand. Mary took Joan in her arms and kLesd her. “You poor little thing!” she said. “I do so want you to be happy, and I thought ”ou’d got all you wanted. Well, you will be happy—l’m sure of that.” She left the room and made her way downstairs \Vith. the eau de cologne and the smelling salts. “How can you be so unfeeling,” said Mrs. Eden angrily, “so inconsiderate? You’ve kept me waiting for ten minutes. Joan would never have behaved to me like that.” Mary kissed her mother and placed the bottles on the little table by the side of the arm-chair. Mrs. Eden continued to grumble, until Mary said it was time to go and cook the dinner. She passed through the kitchen, however, and walked down the garden to the river which ran along the foot of it. It was a beautiful old garden, narrow and closed in on either side with high walls of old grey stone. Whenever Mary had any spare time she worked in it, and Joan, who loved flowers, often helped her. This was the only work that Joan ever did and now Joan was going away to a new house, and more splendid garden. “I must know the name of that man,” said Mary to herself, as she watched the river flow lazily past on its way to the sea. She had made light of this love affair, but she was beginning to realise that a penniless young man who refused to do any work might be not only a “rotter.” but a scoundrel. It was even possible that he had some hold over Joan. “Certain 1 ” ” she thought, “I must find j out more about him.” i She walked slowly back toward the | house. Beyond the little building and j not a hundred yards away from it rose the great mass of the Cathedral with . its square and mighty tower dark ! against the glow of the sunset. In the shade of this huge edifice she had been born and had grown from child to woman. But even yet the beauty and the exeatness of it had not become a commonplace of her life.

She paused for a few moments to look at the tracery of the pinnacles

and the long straight line of the lofty roof. “Everything will turn out all right,” she said, and she went indoors to cook the dinner. CHAPTER 11. Oh, how loveD* ” cried Joan, “how perfectly exquisite—oh, Mar'* if you could only buy that for me!” The jeweller’s assistant, a fashionably dressed young man, behind the counter of one of the most expensive and artistic shops in London, smiled, picked up the diamond ornament, glanced at some mysterious figures and letters scratched on the back of it, and pushed it across the glass surface as though it were something of no importance whatever. “Twelve hundred pounds, madam,” he said, “and we couldn’t match it for that nowadays.” Joan seized the lovely thing with eager fingers. It was a blaze of diamonds, but the artistic workmanship, the tracery of the gold, the delicate lightness of the whole pattern, redeemed it from any charge of vulgarity. This was no star or sun of jewels massive and sparkling. The young man explained that an artist of repute had designed it. It was circular and the tracery was as beautiful as the tracery of some old rose window in a cathedral. “The man who made it is dead,” continued the young man. “We could not replace it. It is cheap at twelve hundred pounds.” Mary laughed. She had entered the shop to buy a wedding present for her sister —something that would not cost more than ten pounds. And she had scraped and saved and sold many a little trinket to obtain the money. There was something humorous in the production of this costly ornament—in Joan’s small, thin, eager fingers, in the fashionable young man extolling the merits of his wares. Twelve hundred pounds! “Jackie, dear,” said Mary, “hadn't we

better get to business?” “We’d be glad to send it up on approval,” said the young man. “I dare say you’d like to think it over.” Joan sighed and laid down the ornament. But she was unwilling to let the fashionably attired young man think that she could not afford to buy anything in the shop. “I’ll very likely buy it later on,” she said. “You might put it aside for me. I’ll let you know in a few days.” The man bowed and was exceedingly courteous, while Mary looked at a tray of gold and enamel cigarette cases. The shop was crowded with customers, but the young man left them to be served by equally suave and welldressed assistants. Then the manager —one of the proprietors of the shop—called him away on some matter, and Joan fingered the cigarette cases.

“That one with white and purple stripes,” she said. “It is only silver. It could not possibly cost more than ten pounds.” The young man returned after a minute’s absence and Mary asked the price of the case. It was nine guineas. “Well, Joan?” queried Mary. “Oh, I’d like it awfully, Mary; it’s just lovely.” Mary paid for the case and gave the name of the hotel at which she and Joan were staying for a few days, while Joan purchased her trousseau. Joan’s new initials —“J.P.”—were to be engraved on the outside of the case and inside there was to be an inscription, “From Mary to Jackie,” and the date of the weddnig.

“It will be sent up to-morrow,” said the young man, “and I hope”—looking at Joan —“that madam will decide—about that other little thing—it is a chance not to be missed. I can assure you.” “I will think about it,” said Joan, as though she had the money waiting in her purse. “Bet me look at it again.”

“Xo, Jackie,” Mary interrupted, 'we're only wasting time. Come along.’ 1