The Splendid Sacrifice

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 219, 5 December 1927, Page 5

The Splendid Sacrifice

By

J.B.Harris-Burland.

Author of; “ The Hatf-Closed Door/* “ *e.. &c

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

CHAPTERS I. and ll.—Mrs. Eden sobs because Joan, her young daughter, engaged to Sir Richard Pynson, is going to marry and will soon leave her. Mary, the elder daughter, tries to console. Later in the day Joan herself is caught sobbing by Mary. She confides that she cannot bear Sir Richard, but declares she must and will marry him because she wants luxuries and a life of ease. Mary learns that Joan loves another, but she does not ireat this seriously. They go to London to get Joan trousseau, and Mary takes her sister to a jeweller’s, to buy her a redding gift. Joan sees a wonderful diamond ornament, but the price is £1,200. It is put back on the counter. A few minutes later it is missing. Customers are not allowed to leave and are searched, but the ornament is not found. has a way of absenting herself from the hotel, where they are staying, for hours at a time. Her sister surmises that *he is meeting the man she is in love with, nicknamed “the rotter** by Mary. *'f can do what I like,” Joan replies, when called to order. Later on Joan sobs her repentance, and Mary forgives. Two men come to the hotel where the Edens nre staying. One of them is the proprietor of the jeweller’s shop, and the "thcr is a detective. The latter places the diamond ornament before them. It *as found hidden away in some of Joan s underwear.

CHAPTERS 11. (continued) and 111.— Joan denies all knowledge of the theft. Mary confesses to having stolen the ornament, and Joan is allowed to go. Mary, in her defence, says it was a sudden temptation. The affair is kept as Private as possible. Mary goes to Holloway Gaol for a month. Mrs. Eden is told that her elder daughter has had a breakdown and has had to go to a. nursing home. While Mary is waiting for her case to come on, Joan confesses to her lhat she took the diamond. Mary atbibutea this action to “the rotter. Joan P)u»t marry Sir Richard and all "'ill be r»*ht. This gentleman arrives at the home of the Edens, and takes possession " f Joan, who tells him about Mary s breakdown, and that her mother will a servant as well as a nurse when Joan, is married. Sir Richard tells her that he knows Mary is in prison.

CHAPTERS ITT. (Continued) and IV.— foan begs Sir Richard to keep Mary s usgrace secret, and pleads her sister s 'ause. Her lover tells her that he will her mother and sister £SOO a year. ~* ar Y returns from her month's imprisony*nt in the best of health. Mrs. Eden ••scribes Joan’s wedding to 'her. Now *hat life is easier Marv enjoys a little society. She meets the Rev. Arthur Britpp. who has a poor living in the town, falls in love with Mary, who, on ac- °* having been in prison, tries to k» *» her affection for him. Finally he reaks down her objections. Mrs. Eden Pot pleased to hear of Mary’s en-

gagement. Mary laughs her fears away. Later Mary receives a letter from Joan which convinces her that there is still war and cruelty in the world. CHAPTER IV.—(Continued). Mary stuck to her gun*, however, and brought up reinforcements. There seemed to be a great many reasons why she should not marry at all. She had to look after her mother; she could not face poverty: she was selfish. “And I’m not the good woman you think me,” she added. *T—I might ruin your life.”

And then she left him and went upstairs to her room, and tried to be very strong and sensible. But, during the day that followed, her courage wavered, and by the evening it was broken. “I have a right to happiness.” she told herself, “to give happiness to the roan who loves me.” And then it seemed to her that nothing else was really of any importance in the world. On the next day Arthur Britton called to see her and found her in tears. There were no more arguments. She did not tell him that she was not fit to be his wife. She knew well enough that she was fit to be the wife of any man. She made up her mind to tell him the truth but later on she shrank from the task. She was silent, not for her own sake, but for Joan’s. To tell him anything at all would be to betray Joan. The man who loved her would not believe in her guilt. lie would see through the pitiful barrier of lies, he would break it down, and Joan would be at his mercy. He would not rest until his wife’s name had been cleared. He would give no promise, swear no oath. She looked at him as he stood in the little drawing room with his back to the fireplace. He had pleaded his cause, and was waiting for her final answer. He had told her that he would not ask her again. His fine face, bronzed by the sun, was strong and resolute. It was not only the face of a boy, who was in love, but he face of a man who, in all else but love, had lived through years of experience. He was not very tall, but his shoulders were broad, and he had the limbs of an athlete Yet there was gentleness in his eye’s—a contrast to the firmness of his mouth and chin. “Well. Mary,” he said after a long silence, “I think we have come to the end of argument.” Ho came toward her and she rose from her chair, and held out her hands to him. He caught hold of them, and looked at her eyes for a few moments. Then he drew her nearer to him, and held her in his arms.

Mrs. Eden was not at all pleased at the news of her daughters engagement “A man ought riot to marry until he c upport a wife,” she said. As for you, Mary, you are simply jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. You’ll be half starved and worked to death. You’ll be ill again and have to go to’ a nursing home.” . . . Marv laughed and tried to paint hei future in brighter colours. She treated her mother as one might treat a child. •■you'll think differently. she said, "when Arthur is Archbishop of Can,e she r3 spent the next afternoon on the river with Arthur Britton. It was sunny and warm and still. All the world seemed to be at peace. But when Mary returned home, and opened a letter from Joan, she realised that there was still war and cruelty in Mary,” Joan had written. ■ We shall be back in England next week, and 1 must tell you just how matters stand. Day after day I have put off writing to you. in the hope that I might turn Dick from his purpose. But Dick, as you know, is very difficult

to deal with. My darling Mary, Dick knows—not the truth, for I think he would kill me if he knew that —but the lies about you. Some brute of a fellow told him and demanded money—blackmail. Dick has paid, and will do all in his power to keep your secret. But there is worse to come. Dick has absolutely forbidden me to have anything more to do with you. I am not to write to you or see you. Of course, I wouldn't give in to him. I haven’t given in to him yet. But he is going to see you about it. He threatens to cut off mother’s allowance if you don’t give in. You must do what you think best, dear. Life is very cruel. I am not happy. Dick is very kind, but — he seems to have no pity for wetness or sin.” 9

Here followed a description of some places Joan had just visited, and Mary smiled as she saw how easily the young bride bad turned from one subject to the other. And then —at the end. there came: “I love you, darling Mary, and I will not give you up. If it. came to a choice between you and Dick—well, perhaps after all, it isn’t that. We have mother to think of.”

Mary tore up the letter and threw the pieces into the kitchen fire. The servant was out and Mary had the kitchen to herself. She held out her hands to the fire, and shivered. That Sir Richard Pynson knew her secret was nothing. I-Ie would keep it for his own sake: in fact he had already paid money to a blackmailer. And even the blackmailer was not of very great importance, for sooner or later the truth was sure to come out. But what did matter was her brother-in-law’s determination to separate her from Joan. There was .something ironical about that; and the irony was cruel and bit deep into her heart. And then Joan herself—lighthearted, frivolous, little Joan. This was not a happy beginning to married life. There must have been a quarrel between husband and doubt a series of quarrels. Brave little Joan —to have risked her happiness in such a cause! Love is curiously blind—even the love of one sister for another. Mary’s kindly heart saw no deeper into Joan’s letter than this—that Joan had refused to obey her husband in this matter. What Mary did not see was the quite callous way in which Joan had said—not in so many words, but quite clearly, “We mustn’t think about ourselves. We’ve got to think about our mother.” That left Mary no choice. She saw that: but she did not realise that most of Joan’s love and affection was froth on the surface, and that, in her selfish little heart, she had no intention ol’ giving up her life of luxury for her sister’s sake. “Brave little Joan.” said Mary to herself. And her thoughts turned quickly to Arthur Britton. Everyone believes in the woman he loves. Sir Richard believed in Joan, but Arthur Britton would never think ill of the woman he wanted for his wife. CHAPTER V. A week later Sir Richard called to see Mary. It was a wet, cold day, and he had driven 40 miles in his car. He did not shake hands with her. He came straight to the point. “Of course,” he said, “you won’t deny the facts.” Mary smiled wearily. “I am sorry for you.” she said, “and I’m sorry for Joan. But there is always a black-sheep in every family.” “I hear you are going to be married ?” “Yes —to Arthur Britton.’’ “Have you told him the truth?” “No.” “I’m glad of that. T fancied sentiment would get the better of your common sense. You must not tell him. In fact. I’m going to pay you to hold your tongue. I am going to allow you five hundred a year.” "I won’t take it.”

“Oh. yes, you will. You’re not a fool. I intended to make you this allowance in any case if you married— Joan will tell you that. But now I make it a condition that you hold your tongue.” “I’m likely to do that.” said Mary quietly, “for my own sak(\" “I don’t know. Women are curious creatures. You’re going to marry a

parson, and you might get into a state of mind in which you’d think it a sin to hold your tongue. Now you’ll take this money. I hear Britton has only three hundred and fifty pounds a year, and it’s quite natural that a rich brother-in-law should lend a hand.” “And if the truth comes out, the allowance stops?” queried Mary. “No—unless you give it away yourself. Now' I’m going to allow your mother five hundred a year.” “I’m afraid,” said Mary, with k smile, “that you’ll find us a very expensive family.” “I’m glad to help both you and your mother. I’m not casting stones at you. If I’d been hard up and driven into a corner, I daresay I’d have done the same. But in future you’re not going to be hard up. Now. there’s Joan. That's another condition. I don t want you to have anything to do with Joan.” Mary laughed. She could not help laughing*. Sir Richard, however, took it as fn outward sign of a hardened heart. “Joan, bless her,” Sir Richard continued, “refused to fall in with my plans. But she’s only a child and doesn’t understand. You ve influence over Joan and I’d rather you didn t see her or write to her. That can easily be arranged without creating a scandal, now that you are going to be married “Oh, that will be quite easy, said Mary, and then, after a pause, “Well, you seem to hold all the cards. You ve got the money and you can buy what you like with it.” “Does that mean that you accept my terms?” , . „

“Of course. I have no choice. Sir Richard nodded. But he knew very well that the girl had a weapon that she had voluntarily thrown away from her. She could easily have made her own terms. “I’ll let all Mirchester know the truth,” she could have said. “But I’ll hold my tongue, and I’ll give you nothing else for your money.” That was how Sir Richard looked at the situation. Sooner or later the truth would come out. Sooner or later Arthur Britton would know that his wife was a thief. In fact, it was even possible that Mary Eden would tell him one of these days and give up the money. She was no fool. She must see exactly how matters stood. And yet she would not use this weapon. Sir Richard did not understand her motive, but he rather admired her for her self-restraint. He felt just a little bit ashamed of himself. “You have no choice,” he said after a pause. “But t don’t want you to think hardly of me. 1 don’t intend to separate you from Joan for years. It is only—just for the present—while she is still under your influence. I want Joan to be happy and I want you to be happy—in your new married life. I don’t think you would be quite happy if you were very poor. You've had enough of that. Well. I must be going. I’ve a long drive before me. Joan is quite well and she sent you her love.” He held out his hand and Mary took it. She understood this man—much better, so she fancied, than Joan understood him. « “Good-bye,” he said, “and make a good job of your life. Don’t let this — this one mistake ruin it.” Mary smiled. “I can fight mv own battles,” she said. “Take care of Joan. Perhaps one of these days you may be sorry that you took her away from me. She will want friends—one fyiend —a woman.” He left the house, and Mary, a few minutes later, made her way to the bottom of the garden and sat down on the wooden bench by the river. “Five hundred pounds a year,” she said to herself. “But he meant to have given it to me in any case.” Yet her mind was ill at ease. How would Joan get on without her help and advice —Joan who was in love with some scoundrel, and married to a man who would not forgive the smallest slip, where his own honour was concerned. It almost seemed to Mary that she had sold poor brave little Joan—for five hundred pounds a year.’ Mrs. Eden's objections to her daughter’s marriage were quickly removed, when she heard of Sir Richard’s allowance. She wept tears of joy. “The kindest of men,” she sobbed. “Dear little Joan—how Richard must love her. Mary, dear, lam sure you will be very happy.”

The wedding took place a month after Joan returned from her honeymoon. It

was a quiet little affair in the bridegroom’s own church—a grey fourteenth century building that stood scarcely a stone’s throw from the cathedral. The church was full, but there was no reception afterwards. The bride and bridegroom left a few minutes after the service for Bournemouth, where they intended to stay for three weeks. "Altogether,” said the wife of a canon, “a very hole-and-corner affair. I think Sir Richard might have paid for some sort of a festival.” That, on the whole, expressed the opinion of Mirchester. And it was frankly agreed that Mary Eden might have done much better for herself. Since she had emerged once more on the field of battle —that ever-existing battle in the field of matrimony—it had been admitted that she was a charming and beautiful girl with a sister married to a man of wealth and position. Many mothers of marriageable daughters were relieved at this removal of a formidable rival to the claims of their own offspring. But they were none the less loud in their disapproval of the match. Mrs. Eden wept, but not so profusely as when Joan had married Sir Richard Pynson. And she had even gone so far as to give Arthur Britton a little lecture on his wonderful good fortune and how such a treasure ought to be guarded and appreciated. And Britton had answered her very humbly and gently, and had kissed her. For the time being he was quite able to forget thatf but for Sir Richard Pynson’s generosity, Mary might have been a household drudge for many years to come. Joan attended the wedding—Sir Richard was not the sort of man to create a scandal —and by her husband’s special permission, she was allowed to be alone with her sister during the few minutes spent at the house before the departure for the station. “My dear, dear Mary,” cried Joan, when they were alone in her sister’s bedroom, “I do want you to be very happy—so much happier than I am.” “Joan, dear, it is early to talk like that. You are going to be very happy.” Joan burst into tears and covered her face with her hands. “I feel as though I bad robbed you of everything.” she sobbed. “I—sometimes I feel as if I must tell Richard the truth.” “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Mary answered quietly. “He’d make life very hard for you.” “I don’t care!—l don’t care! Let him kill me if he likes! And if I did tell him the truth, what could he do to me? Mary,, if ever the truth does get out, I shall tell him—tell everyone.” “Stuff and nonsense!” said Mary angrily. “You don’t imagine I’ve gone through all this—for nothing?” “But —your husband, Mary? It didn’t matter so much before. If I'd thought that there was a chance of your getting married. I'd never have let you sacrifice yourself—for poor little worthless me.” Mary smiled, and for a few moments she did not speak. She was busy adjusting her hat. and her mouth was full of hatpins. “Your husband,” Joan continued, “a clergyman—oh, it will be terrible —for you both.” Mary looked at herself in the glass. “My husband.” she said slowly, as she dug a pin into her hat, “will more easily forgive than yours, Joan. I’m afraid Richard is a bit hard.” Joan flung her arms round her sister’s neck and kissed her. “You look so perfectly sweet,” she said. “No one would believe any ill of you. Mary dear—in that hat.” Mary burst out laughing. “I must keep it by me,” she said, “and put it on like armour—a helmet, I mean—when the day of battle comes.” “Mary, it is unkind of you to talk like that—one would think yo% were laughing at me.” “Shouldn't one laugh on one's wedding day, Joan? Now, you can drop the subject. I’m much more worried about you than about myself. You’re not still thinking of that man, are you?” “No, Mary—no—l promise you. I’ll never see him again—never.” “He stole the diamond ornament, didn’t he?” (To be continued)