The Splendid Sacrifice

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 230, 17 December 1927, Page 21 (Supplement)

The Splendid Sacrifice

N. £>y

J. B. Harris-Burland.

Author of: '* The Half-Closetf Door,’* * “ The Black Moon," " The Felgafe Taint * " The Poison League." Ac.. Ac

CHAPTER XIV. (Continued) “I’d rather hear the story from your lips,” he said, after a pause, “but if you won’t tell it to me, I’ll go to this Mr. Smith.” She did not speak. The words, “It is not my secret,” had formed themselves in her brain. But she saw that they would not be sufficient to calm her husband. “Whose secret, then?” he would reply, and she would not be able to answer him. And then he would know that it was Joan’s secret, and he would warn Sir Richard against this fellow. “You spoke of blackmail,” he went on. “Have you paid this scoundrel any money ?” "No—not yet. I—lve tried to be friends with him. Don’t smile, Arthur. I'd like to tell you everything, but you must trust me. Don’t you trust me?” “Yes,” he replied. “I’ve behaved like a brute. But I’m going to—” He paused. There was a knock on the hall door, and he looked out of the window. He recognised Sir Richard’s car, and a few moments later Joan was shown into the room. "Oh. I’m s 0 glad you’re both in,” she exclaimed, when she had kissed Mary. I’ve come to stay a couple of days with you. Dick’s so upset about this burglary—he can talk of nothing else, and Carne is like a prison. Half the servants have given notice. Such a fuss —about a few bank-notes, and a bag of gold and silver. May I bring in my luggage?” „ T , “Of course, dear. said Mary. l m so glad to see you.” Arthur Britton was courteous, but not enthusiastic. “You’re just in time for lunch, he ; d “Later on.” said Joan, leaning back in an armchair, and smoking a cigarette; "you can tell Arthur the truth, later on. But not just yet, Mary dear. I believe Dick would kill me if he knew the truth. And you don’t want me to be murdered, do you?” “Please talk sense,” said Mary, quietly. It’s just this. I don’t want to ruin your life and I don’t intend to let vou ruin mine. And yet it seems to me that one of us has to go under.” Joan made no reply. She moved her feet a little nearer to the blaze of the fire, and closed her eyes. They were sitting in the “parlour,” and the dinner had been cleared away. Arthur Britton had left the house after lunch, and had said that he was not likely to be home until 10 o’clock. Some cold supper was to be left in his study for him. The two sisters had been alone together for several hours, but it was

not until after dinner that Mary had ] told Joan about “Mr. Smith,” and I Joan had denied all knowledge of the man. For a while there was silence, and Mary studied the delicate features — the wonderfGl beauty of her sister’s face. It was the innocent face of a child, and so absolutely lovely that no one could ever think ill of Joan. “Arthur is quite convinced that this Mr. Smith is the man who came here that night,” said Alary at last. “So you’ve told me before, dear.” Joan replied with a yawn. “But. of course, he’s made, a mistake. I don’t believe in all these footprints and finger-prints, do you?” “Wiser folk than we are believe In them. Book here, Joan, I’d believe this Air. Smith was—your old lover —if he hadn’t made love to me.” “Made love to you?” laughed Joan. “Oh, Alary, this is too exciting for anything. How shocked you must have been. Oh, tell me all about it, Mary. You spoke of a blackmailer, and now he turns out to be a lover. No wonder Arthur looked so unpleasant at lunch. Alary brushed the words aside with a shrug of her shoulders. She gave no information —refused to give any details. “Supposing 1 were to tell Arthur the truth.” she said. “I mean the real truth, and make him swear that he wouldn’t tell anyone else? That wouldn’t hurt you, would it?” “He wouldn’t agree to hold his tongue. Alary. Sooner or later, it’s bound to come out —the fact that you were in prison for a month, I mean. Do you think Arthur would suffer like a martyr and let you suffer? Later on you can say what you like, but not just now.” “Arthur is going to see this Air. Smith.” “I don’t suppose anything will come of that. A blackmailer doesn’t give anything away. He’d be a match for a dozen men like your husband.” Alary suddenly caught hold of Joan’s hand, and, leaning forward looked into the girl’s face. “Joan,” she said quietly, “swear to me that this man is not your lover:”

“Of course, he is not my lover. I have no lover now—only a husband.” “And the man never has been your lover?” "Never —don’t be so silly, Mary. We | can't get out of this mess by quarrelling. Someone must be able to deal with this Mr. Smith.” Mary rose from her chair, placed her hands on the mantelpiece and stared down at the fire. She could not understand her sister. Joan ought to have been terrified at the situation, but Joan was rather inclined to treat it lightly. It seemed impossible to make Joan regard anything seriously. “My husband is going to deal with him,” said Mary grimly. “Heaven knows what will come of that.” “Oh, Arthur is so gentle,” laughed Joan. “He’ll probably preach a sermon to Mr. Smith and then pay over the money.” “You think Arthur’s like that, do you ?” “Not really like that, Mary—but he’s obliged to be like that because he’s a parson.” The hall door closed with a crash, and there was the sound of heavy footsteps in the passage. They passed the door of the •parlour” and went upstairs. There was the closing of another door, and the tramping of feet overhead. Sounds were very audible in that old house, where the floor of the bedroom consisted of oak planks that formed the ceiling of the room below. I “Arthur’s back early,” said Mary, “but one never knows what time he will return. I think I’ll go upstairs, Joan it’s been raining hard, and he'll want his clothes taken down to the kitchen to dry.” She left the room, lit a candle that, stood on an old oak chest in the passage, and made her way upstairs. She knocked at the door of the bedroom, and there was no reply. Then she knocked again, and called out, “Can I come in, Arthur?” “No,” Britton replied. “I’ll be down in a few minutes. Is there any food for me ?” “Yes," said Mary, and then she tried the handle of the door. Pier husband had locked himself in. “I’m wet through,” he called out, “wet through. I’ll be down in two minutes.” She turned away and went downstairs to the study. There was a piece of cold mutton on the table, bread, cheese, and butter, and the remains of a rice pudding. Mary went into the kitchen, and took some baked potatoes out of the oven, and carried them into the study. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and saw that it was half-past nine. She went back to the “parlour.” Joan was on her knees before the fire, holding out her hands close to the blazing coals. “Arthur’s wet through,” Mary said. Joan turned and looked at her, and then said, “Don't worry about me, Mary. I’ll stay in here and read a book. I don’t care about seeing hungry men eat.” Mary returned to the study, and waited for ten minutes. She was nervous and afraid. This business was creating a sort of electrical atmosphere, charged with lightning. It was not at all like her husband to lock his door while he merely changed some wet clothes. It seemed to her that her husband had

wished to be alone —not for just two or three minutes, but for Quite a long time. The situation was unnatural. "He is afraid to meet me," she said to herself. That was the only explanation she could find for his delay. He knew the truth and was afraid to meet her. Perhaps he was on his knees praying for strength to conquer his horror and disgust—to deal gently with her. Twenty minutes passed before she heard his footsteps and then —they paused outside the door. She saw the handle move, but still the man outside hesitated to enter the room. Then at last the door opened. CHAPTER XV. Mary gave a cry of horror as she saw her husband’s face. It was as white as chalk, and there was a lurid red scar across his left cheek. A bruise over his right eye showed green and purple and yellow. There was a piece of sticking plaster on his upper lip. “I’m not a very pretty sight,” he said, quietly. Then he locked the door, and his wife, who had hardly been able to take her eyes off his face, saw that he had changed into a pair of old flannel trousers and a sweater and faded blazer of his college eleven. She did not speak. She waited for him to explain. He went to the table, filled his glass and drained it to the last drop. “I wanted that,” he said. “Fighting is thirsty work.” “Arthur dear,” she faltered, and she came toward him. To her surprise he took her in his arms and kissed her. “I know all about it,” he said gently. “You should have told me, Mary. Then I could have helped you. Well, I think I’ll have some supper. My lip’s a bit sore, but I'm hungry. I don’t want to talk over the affair, until I’ve had some food. A hungry man is hard to deal with. Perhaps you’d better go and look after Joan. I don’t want her to see me, and please don’t tell her anything. I expect I shall have to go away for a holiday. A clergyman can’t very well go about' his parish looking like a prize-fighter.” He seated himself in a chair, and began to cut the cold mutton. Mary looked at him for a few moments. Then she flung her arms impatiently about his neck, kissed him, and left the room. She was overwhelmed with joy.

Her husband knew about that month’s < imprisonment. The blackmailer? Well, v perhaps he had been silenced. But t even if he stood in the Cathedral Close t and shouted out the news to all Mirchester, that would not matter so long ; as her husband had forgiven her. And he must have forgiven her, or he would not have taken her in his arms and ; kissed her. She was not afraid —except , on his account. But together they would fight down the scandal —move to . another part of England, perhaps—be content in each other’s love, he in his . work, and she in the care she would , take of him. She found Joan reading a novel, but * * antnorang * *

Joan flung it aside and yawned. “Well?” she queried. “Oh, Arthur’s very tired and he’s got so wet. He’s having his supper.” Joan yawned again. “I think I shall go up to town to-morrow,” she said “To London?” “Yes, I want to do some shopping. 1 can go up by an early train, and get back here aboutn 10 o’clock.” “Then I’d go to bed early, Joan, if I were you.” “Yes —I think I’ll go now. You dear things breakfast so early that I can easily catch the 9 o’clock train. Could the servant order me a cab?” “It’s only five minutes walk to the station.” “Yes, dear. But it may be raining, and besides, I’m going to take a small trunk with me.” “A small trunk?” Mary queried suspiciously. Joan laughed. “Yes. a small trunk, i You dear old goose, I’m not going to

elope. I’m taking up some furs that I want altered. Dick wanted me to send them by rail, but I must go and see the furrier myself about them. "Oh, Joan dear,” said Mary, “how can you think about such things—at a time like this?” “Well, nothing has happened, lias it? And I shall be back to-morrow night. Mr. Smith can wait. You and Arthur can deal with him. Arthur is so*capable, and I’m a little fool.” The two sisters kissed each other, and Joan left the room, closing the door behind her. Curiosity tempted her to try the handle of the study door. She turned it gently, and found that

the door was locked. “Something has happened,” she said to herself, and then she climbed the stairs. All the joy had gone from her face. She did not look in the least like a careless, frivolous child. Mary was alone for a quarter of an hour in the “parlour-” Then she knocked on the door of the study. Britton turned the key in the lock and opened the door. “Joan has gone to bed,” said Mary. “Yes,” he answered grimly, “but she tried the handle of this door. Now, Mary, I want to talk this over quietly and sensibly with you. I’ve been half out of my mind since I saw that brute kissing your hand. And then the horrible thing he told me? I—l wanted to be by myself for a bit before we ■ talked it over—l wanted food—and a j pipe. One ought to be just normal I when one discusses something that is j going to alter one’s life. And the more extraordinary the subject of discus- *

sion, the clearer one’s mind should be. Smith has told me—about that month. At first he pretended to be your lover, but I knocked that nonsense out of him. He has told me the truth, hasn’t he, Mary?”

“Yes, Arthur,” she answered. “They sent me to prison for a month. I was mad when I took the jewel. Arthur, you can never forgive me?”

“I have forgiven you, dear.” “No—no —you cannot forgive me. I ought to have told you before we were married —I shall ruin you—everything —all your work. Arthur, Arthur, it’s of no good you saying you forgive m* “I do,” he answered quietly, “As I hope to be forgiven. Mary, dear, don't think me hard or unfeeling, but I don't want to talk of that just now-—of what you’ve done, and what I think about it. I fancy our love for each other will carry us through that. We’ve got to talk over something very practical. I made a fool of myself in thrashing Mr. Smith. To-morrow he is going to tell everyone the truth —give the whole show away. He is no longer just a mere blackmailer. He is an enemy. Ho doesn’t ask for money now. But he’s very badly off. He’s living in one of those old cottages by the river—living there by himself, and, in spite of his fine clothes, I don’t believe he has food in the house. He certainly had no fire. It’s just this, Mary. I believe he could be bought—l’m not sure, but most penniless rogues can be bought. The question is this. Shall we face the music now?”

“Yes,” Mary replied, “now. The truth must be known later on. This man is not in possession of a secret known only to himself. At any moment, some chance may give me away—Arthur, I —I don’t know' what it w'ould mean to you.”

“It would mean this, Mary.” Britton answered, after a pause. “At least I think it would mean this. No one could think any the worse of me. But for you—well, I shouldn’t care to let you live on here in Mirchester. You would have to give up this house of yours, which you are so fond of. You simply couldn’t fight a thing like this down —in Mirchester, at any rate.” “But wherever we went, the story would follow us, Arthur.” “It might.” “And your work is here?” “Yes, 1 admit that. But I wouldn't keep you here, Mary. In some other place—perhaps abroad ” “No, Arthur. You must stay here. It doesn’t matter about me. I'm willing to pay for my folly.” Husband and wife looked at each other for a few moments without j speaking. Then Arthur Britton j laughed. “I think.” he said, “that you are just I the most splendid woman in the world.” “Don’t make fun of me, Arthur.” He rose from his chair, caught her in his arms, and kissed h**r again and again, as she began to cry. (Te be Continued.)