The Splendid Sacrifice

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 221, 7 December 1927, Page 5

The Splendid Sacrifice

V'. &y

J. N. Harris-Burland.

Author of; *' The Half-Closed OoOr,° “ The Black Moon,” “ Tho Felgate Taint ” '* The Poison League.'* Ac.. 4c

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS CHAPTERS I. and ll.—Mrs. Eden sobs b«cause 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 herse T f 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 treat this seriously. They go to London to get Joan trousseau, and Mary takes her sister to a jeweller's, to buy her a wedding 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. Joan has a way of absenting herself from the hotel, where they are staying, for hours at a time. Her sister surmises that she is meeting the man she is in love with, nicknamed “the rotter" by Mary. "I 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 are staying. One of them is the proprietor of the jeweller’s shop, and the other is a detective. The latter places the diamond ornament before them. It was 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 <'ase to come on, Joan confesses to her that she took the diamond. Mary attributes this action to “the rotter. Joan must marry Sir Richard and all will be r i*ht. This gentleman arrives at the home of the Edens, and takes possession Joan, who tells him about Mary s breakdown, and that her mother will want a servant as well ns a nurse when she, Joan, is married. Sir Richard tells her that he knows Mary is in prison. CHAPTERS 111. (Continued) and IV.— loan begs Sir Richard to keep Mary s disgrace secret, and pleads her sister s '-ause. Her lover tells her that he will allow her mother and sister £SOO a year. Mary returns from her month’s imprisonment In the best of health. Mrs. Eden describes Joan’s wedding to her. Now that life is easier Mary enjoys a little society. She meets the Rev. Arthur Britton, who has a poor living in the town. He falls in love with Mary, who, on account of having been in prison, tries to stifle her affection for him. Finally he breaks down her objections. Mrs. Eden 18 not pleased to hear of Mary s engagement. Mary laughs her fears away, i-ater Mary receives a letter from Joan which convinces her that there is still war and cruelty in the world. CHAPTERS IV AND V.—ln the letter to Mary, Joan informs her that they would b# back in England in a week’s time, and that some brute of a fellow had fold Dick, and demanded money. Dick bad paid and said that he would do all in his power to keep her secret. A week later Sir Richard called to see Mary, and offered her £SOO a year if she would hold llp r tongue. He also offered to allow he mother £SOO a year and her objections tf) the marriage were removed. After be marriage Mary, talking to Joan, asken 'f the man the latter really loved had stolen the diamond ring.

CHAPTER VI (Continued) Sir Richard locked the. door of the library behind him, put on an overcoat, and left the house by a side door. Daniels, who had managed to secure * heavy ebony stick, its handle crowned with the head of a most formidable bird, followed his master. “I think.” said Sir Richard, “that will also lock this door, Daniels. There may be thieves about.” Daniels locked the door, and they quietly along a broad grass ' v alk that was bordered with shrubs, ft ran straight down to the lake, but before they reached the end of it they turned aside down a narrow winding Path, and came to the little wooden sea * hidden among the bushes. It a dark night, but Sir Richard had brought an electric torch with him, and he let the light play on the ffiYumd by the seat. .

"You heard nothing?” he queried. "Nothing. Sir Richard — but I saw the man and the boat.” t# "You didn’t wait for him to land? "Not T, sir. They say that if he tends, it means death to someone in house.” _‘Oh. they say that, do they? Capi-

tail These legends grow, Daniels—like ivy on a ruined wall. Generations of servants add to them piece by piece. Now, do you know. I’ve never heard that bit about the ghost landing.” “Well, Sir Richard, Markham told me. I haven’t been here long, Sir Richard, as you know.” “H’m,” said his master. Markham was the butler—a man of 50 with a humorous eye. No doubt he had pitched a very fine yarn about the family ghost—something that ought to have kept young footmen from walking about the grounds at night. Sir Richard walked forward to the edge of the lake—some 30 yards away from the seat, and let the light play upon the water. The lake was very {shallow at this part, not more than six inches in depth for quite ten yards from the shore. And there was a bed of reeds. It was very unlikely that anyone would have landed there; and it was quite certain that no one had landed, for not one of the reeds was broken. Yet something real and material lay behind this silly story of a ghost. Someone, for some purpose or other, had played a foolish trick. Markham? No, Markham would hardly have gone to all that trouble to frighten a young footman. “I wonder what the game is?” thought Sir Richard, and then he told Daniels to remain on the seat, while he walked along the bank to the land-ing-stage at the bottom of the broad grass walk. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he added. "Keep a firm hold on your stick.” He walked very slowly toward the landing-stage, and reached it without seeing the trace of a man’s footsteps on the wet turf. The stage itself was built of wood, and ran out like a pier into the lake. The water at the end of it was ten feet deep. It had been carried out thus far because the lake rose and fell with the level of the river that passed through on the further side. There was no right of way through this part of the river, and, at either end of the lake, it was guarded with a barricade of posts and chains and barbed wire. It was a narrow river—the upper reach of the same stream that widened out into the Colne at Mirchester. It was a famous trout stream, but Sir Richard knew well enough that no one kept a boat upon it—within two miles of his park. He had boats of his own —a small dinghy and a punt, and a Canadian canoe. They were kept in the boathouse near the end of the pier. He examined the boat-house, and saw that the gates were locked, anc. that the lock had not been tampered with. “Where did the fellow get th,e boat from?” he said to himself. There was something about this affair that he did not like at all. He could not regard it as a silly trick. He walked slowly back along the landing-stage, and when he had reached the grass walk he flashed the light of his lantern on the shrubs that lav to the right of him. Something white caught his eye, and he bent down and picked up a handkerchief a tinv square of fine linen edged with old lace. He examined it, and drew in his breath sharply, as he saw the initials embroidered in one ot tne corners. “Joan!” he said to himself. Joans ha Se k^ thrustf the scrap of lace and linen into his pocket, and made his way back to Daniels. “Seen anything?" he Queried. “Nothing,” Sir Richard, but Im c lad you’ve come back.” “?ls d 'sfr Richard. I've felt all queer and creepy ever since you left me. We’l! go back to the house,” said Sir Richard. And be began to walk fo quickly that the footman could scarcely keep pace with hint. CHAPTER VII. Sir Richard did not give Joan her handkerchief until the following mornin “Oh I forgot this.” he said quite carelessly, as he produced it from his pocket. “I found it down by the la Joan took it from his hand with a «smile "I couldn’t think where I d fost it,” She replied. "I've been worryng Julie about it. I love those handkerchiefs, Dick. Tou bought them for me in London—don't you remember? —when we came back from Norway. -yes, dear,” be said gently. I re_ m “When" did you find it, Dick?” “T ast night,” he replied, and he fancied—perhaps it was only fancy—that a little of the colour left his sites fa “ Last night, dear?” she echoed.

“Whatever were you doing down by the lake last night?” He laughed. “Oh, Daniels, the third footman,” he answered, “came rushing into the library, and crying out that he’d seen the ghost of Sir James—you know—in a boat on the lake. I went down to have a look for him.” Joan, who had just finished breakfast, lit a cigarette, taking it from the case her sister had given her. “How she said, after a pause. “I mean for you to go out and look for a ghost.” “I don’t believe in ghosts.” “Don’t you? I do —but I’m not frightened of them. Dick, surely you believe in Sir Janies?” “Not as a ghost, dear. I've never seen him, and my father never saw him. But the legend is nearly a hundred and fifty years old. It has grown wonderfully.” The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Daniels, with a telegram on a salver. He handed it to Joan and she tore open the envelope. “Mother is very ill,” she cried. “We are to go at once.” “Oh, my dear—my dear,” said Sir Richard, and then, turning to Daniels, he told the man to order the car—the Rolls Royce limousine. “Look sharp,” he said, “it must be round here in five minutes.” And -when the footman had left the room, Sir Richard picked up the telegram. “Mother dying.” he read. “Come at once if you wish to see her. Mary.” Pie laid his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Joan was crying, and her face was covered with her hands. He bent over and kissed her. The cigarette had fallen to the floor, and there

was a smell of burning. He put his foot on it, and then took his wife in his arms. “Dear little Joan,” he whispered. “My poor dear little Joan.” And he hated himself for the trick he had played upon her with the handkerchief, for the way in which he had watched her face. There had been no definite suspicion in his mind—only a vague and idiotic idea that his wife knew something about this ghost that had so-frightened Daniels. • “I must get ready at once,” cried Joan, rising to her feet —"at once, Dick, don’t waste time. We can talk on the journey.” Her voice was unusually hard, and it was not until she had left the room that Sir Richard remembered the legend of the ghost. Its appearance was supposed to foretell a death in the family. “But that’s all nonsense,” he said to himself. “Joan’s mother is not one of the family.” The powerful car covered the forty miles between Carne Court and Mirchester in less than an hour, but Mrs. Eden had been dead for twenty minutes before her younger daughter reached the house. Mary took Joan in her arms, and said. “You poor little thing. But she would not have known you if you had come sooner. I sent the telegram last night. Joan dear you have come back to me. After this, your husband ” “Oh, how can you think of anything but poor, darling mother?” said Joan angrily, and she thrust Mary away from her, and went upstairs to look at the waxen face of the dead. During the next few days Joan was like a frenzied child in her grief. Mary, white and calm, shed no tears. “She doesn’t care,” said Joan to her husband. But Sir Richard answered, “She does care. Joan—very much.” And it was Mary and her husband who saw to everything—made all the arrangements for the funeral. Joan was in a state of collapse and Sir Richard held himself aloof. He felt that he had no right to interfere or make any suggestion. It was only at night that Mary cried. She saw a thousand faults in her conduct toward her mother. “I did not know she was so ill,” she thought. “I have never understood her —I have been harsh with her, seeing only selfishness where there was ill-health —weakness of body and brain.” (.To be continued.)