THE SHADOW of a DREAM

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 258, 21 January 1928, Page 20

THE SHADOW of a DREAM

By-t

Charles Procter.

Author o» a bpienrud Butterfly.** "The Woman Pays," •* The SocKwei Combine" "An Innocent Adventuress” 6c. 6 c

tSYNOPSTS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS Chapters 1., 11. and lll.—Monica Moncrief is in ihfe / s/s: Glenogle, returning from South America to England. Jervis O'Neill, the third officer, converses with her. He tells her that he once worked for six weeks on her father’s ranch, and saved her from a nasty experience. He gives her details of his life. Monica tells him that her aunt. Valentine, to whom she h? going, is a stranger, and she'is full of doubt concerning her new life. Jervis declares his love for her, and Monica responds. She recollects that she is engaged to her cousin, Geoffrey Valentine. That young man appears, enraged. He takes Monica to her cabin, and then returns to Jervis, who makes him understand that he, Jervis, is going to marry Monica. He threatens Geoffrey with the knowledge he possesses of the young man’s past. Geoffrey tries to make up to Monica, who is indifferent. She falls asleep, and is awakened by a deafening crash. The Glenogle has been torpedoed by a submarine. Jervis comes to the rescue of Monica. Valentine shrieks to be allowed to get in one of the boats. The one in which Monica ; finds - herself collides with the sinking liner, and its occupants are; thrown into the sea. Monica fights for her life. Everything goes dark, * Chapters IV. and V. —Monica awakes to find herself in Leith Infirmary. She has lost her memory. The nurse tells her : that she was picked up by a Norwegian boat. Geoffrey Valentine pays her a visit, but she does nut recollect him. The nurse dismisses him for exciting Miss Moncrjef. • Lady Valentine insists upon enlightenment with regard t,o the Moncrief. fortune. After hearing details Lady: Valentine insists on five thousand pounds as her share of the plunder. Jervis O’Neill calls, and the mother and son agree in stating that* Monica does not wish to see him. He will only take Monica’s word for this, and promises to call at five o'clock in order to see her. Monica is coached by her aunt, and knows what to say to Jervis. CHAPTER VI.—THE PLOT. Jervis O’Neill for once looked a little excited. ITo paused just inside the door, his blue , eyes fixed on Monica, then he took a quick step, forward, his hand outstretched. He appeared to have forgotten Lady Valentine and Geoffrey, both of whom were glancing apprehensively from him to Monica. “Why, Monica,” he exclaimed, his deep voice charged with feeling. “This is splendid! You have no idea how glad I am to see you again—to see you looking yourself again. It —it—why, what’s wrong??’ He broke off abruptly, and his hand dropped to his side. Monica had risen and was staring at him with strange

intentness, her brows drawn together in a troubled frown, and her winsome face pale; but there was no sign of recognition in her light brown eyes. “I —I don’t know you,” she said slowly, clasping her slim white hands together. Lady Valentine glanced meaningly at her son. “There, I told you so,” broke in Geoffrey. “.Miss Moncrief does not wish to know you, and only consented to receive you to-day at my request in the hope that you will refrain from troubling her again, and because you insisted upon hearing the truth from her own lips.” '•You can’t mean that, Monica?” Jervis said very quietly, after a pause. “You can’t mean, after what happened on the old Glenogle, that you have struck Jerry O’Neill off your list of friends? These people here have turned you against me—lied to you, perhaps. Monica decided that even if this bronzed man with the fearless blue eyes and strong chin was an unscrupulous adventurer, he. must be an interesting person to know, and she felt inclined to ask questions. But she remembered Lady Valentine’s warning and instructions. t “Please go away,” she said, trying to speak firmly. “I don’t know you, and don’t wish to know you, and—and I hop© you won’t trouble-, us again.” She was sorry a moment later that she had said the words, for Jervis winced as if she had struck him. He went white beneath the tan, and his jaws came together grimly. “You mean that?” he said, then shrugged his big shoulders and controlled himself. Monica did not—-could not —answer. She felt strangely ashamed and uncomfortable, and her heart was curiously stirred. She knew instinctively that she had hurt the big man, and longed to assure him that she had not .intended to wound him, and that she dismissed him only because she had been asked to do so by her aunt. She did not even meet Jerry’s eyes, and after waiting expectantly for a few moments longer, O’Neill walked silently out of the room. Lady Valentine and her son exchanged glances again, and the latter heaved a great sigh of relief. The risky plan had succeeded beyond his expectations, the greatest danger had been removed, and everything now would be plain sailing. “Thank goodness the scoundrel didn’t make a scene!” he exclaimed. “I , was afraid I might be compelled t,o throw him out. I hope he recognises now that we have seen through his game.” “He is a very dangerous and a very plausible rogue,”. added Lady Valentine quickly, crossing to Monica’s side, and patting the girl’s shoulder approvingly. “You did the right thing, my dear, in the most dignified and ladylike fashion. I don’t think he will trouble you again.” “He did not look a bad man,” said Monica, weakly, “and —and somehow I have a feeling that—that he did not mean to harm me. Just for a moment, too, his name struck me as being that of a friend, and I seemed to know him —but ” The look in Jerry’s eyes as he had turned away from her haunted her. She felt there was something she ought to know about him —something sh© did know if only she could grasp it—a memory that was like an elusive shadow. She fell asleep at last, and dreamt of Jerry, of Geoffrey, and of the grey shapes which had seemed to menace her in her delirium—a confused, jumbled dream which vanished like mists before the sun when she awoke, and of which,* although she tried, she could remember nothing., by the tittle she had dressed. She spent the morning shopping in Princes Street with her aunt, and in the excitement of choosing new dresses and the score of other things shp needed, Monica forgot her troubles for a time. The sun was shining, the streets' were crowded with Welldressed people and with khaki-clad soldiers. There were spring flowers blooming in the gardens, and the finest thoroughfare in Europe was looking its best. Then came the novelty of lunching in the hotel dining-room, and watching the people at surrounding tables; later the task of packing and finally the bustle of departure. It was all very strange and stirring to Monica, who felt like a child taken out into the great world for the first time, a child to whom everything was strange and novel and delightful. Even the long train journey to London wafe an interr esting experience, and she sat gazing out of the window at the scenery changing like a kaleidoscope. It was late when they reached London, and they drove at once to one of the big hotels, where rooms had been engaged, for Lady Valentine had let her flat in Bays water, and it had been arranged that’ she and Monica should go' on to -Bournemouth to recuperate. Geoffrey had not quite decided whether he would accompany them, but he arrived at a decision during the course of the next day. “We’ve got to hustle things forward,” he told his mother abruptly, late in the evening after Monica had retired to her room. “I’ve been thinking matters over to-day, and I realise there is no time to be lost —that it would be risky to delay. Monica may regain her memory as she gets well, and if she does so before she is my wife—well, that will spoil everything. You’ve got to see that she agrees to marry me at once.” “Good heavens, Geoff! Do you expect me to do your love-making for you?” exclaimed his mother. “You talk as if you want me to do everything. Do you think I can bully and coerce the girl into marrying you immediately? Monica is a woman, and a very human and attractive one, in spite of the fact that she has lost her memory. She is not-a child who will do Avhat I bid her without question, and already I have discovered she has a will of her own.” “You can make her understand that she has no option but to marry me. Play on her feelings ” “Yes, of course; but she may decide that a girl with her looks has alternatives, Geoff; that there are other men more attractive. After all, other men are bound to pay her attention, in spite of the strictect chaperonage on my part, and she may lose her heart to some dashing subaltern in khaki. The only way to win her is to make love

to her and to be first and foremost in the field. I shall do my part, of course, but you had better come to Bournemouth with us.” “I intend to. and we can go tomorrow,” said Geoffrey moodily. “There is nothing to stay in London for. All the men I know’ seem to be on active service, and the rest apparently regard me as a sort of pariah because I’m not in khaki. The war lias become a sort of mania with some people, and I suppose I’ll have to apply for a commission in order to be in the swim, although I loathe the idea of soldiering. I almost wish I hadn’t come home. Still, I suppose a fellow can get some fun as an officer in the Army if he has money, so I reckon I’d better get into uniform.” “Yes, I should think it would be advisable,” said his mother drily. “People expect a man of thirty, without ties, to do something, and I would rather not have to make excuses for you.” “Oh, I’ll apply for a commission at once, and I daresay ' I can get one,” said Geoffrey, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “But I hope to goodness they don’t send me to the front, or to some beastly place far from London. You’ll speak to Monica?” “Yes, and I’ll tell her you are going into the Army,” said his mother. “It may help, for she has developed an interest in the war, and is quite enthusiastic about our soldiers, as you may have noticed.” She sat still for some time after Geoffrey had gone, thinking over what had been said, and constructing a plan of campaign, which she put into practice on the following morning soon after breakfast. “Do you feel well and strong enough Monica, dear, to have a s&rious talk about the future?” she asked, linking her arm through Monica’s, and smiling into her niece’s face. “Why, certainly, aunt,” answered the girl readily. “And I should like to talk about my past, too. I should like you to tell me all you know about me. It may help me to remember.” She looked a winsome and attractive figure in her white silk blouse and plain blue skirt, as she seated herseif on a couch and glanced expectantly at Lady Valentine. Her oval face was still rather pale, but her lips, by contrast, seemed vividly red, and her remarkable eyes, slightly sunken as a result of her long illness, seemed unusually large and more wonderful than ever. - “Tell me about my father,” urged Monica, eagerly, as her aunt sat down beside her. “He was a strange man, rather eccentric, and rather handsome,” her aunt answered. “He and I were supposed to be much alike in appearance when we were young, and you have his eyes—the Moncrief eyes. He lost his money in an. unfortunate speculation when he was a young man, and went off to South America. He came home only once, after your mother died, then went back again, and he wrote very, very seldom. Only when he fell ill, some months ago, and feared he was about to die, he wrote to me, and

Geoffrey went to see him. Do you Temember anything now, Monica?” Monica shook her head, and Lady Valentine drew a long breath, and resumed.

“Your father begged Geoff to take charge of you ap'd bring you back to England, and Geoffrey willingly consented, for he had fallen in love with 3'ou.' Before' your father died, Monica dear, you had promised to marry Geoff. It was your poor father’s dying wish that you should be united, and U was arranged that you and -Geoff should be married as soon as you arrived in England. Geoffrey is very much in love with you, and anxious to marry you, but your loss of memory has—er—rather upset things. But I suppose, dear, you are not going back on your promise—a Moncrief never breaks a promise.” Monica gasped, the colour surged to her cheeks, and she stared at her aunt in something akin to alarm. “But—but Geoffrey is quite a stranger to me!” she protested. “I feel that I don’t want him, and certainly I don’t want to marry him. Perhaps when I recover my memory I may feel different, aunt; but at present—oh, it is impossible!” “I’m sorry, dear,” said Lady Valentine, in tones of concern. “It will make matters so difficult. You see, Geoff is going to join the Army, and I have made arrangements to go away with some friends in the course of a few weeks. We are both to a large extent dependent on Geoff, and it will be so awkward to leave you alone and unprotected. If you were married it would alter matters: but a young unmarried girl—yes, it is very unfortunate.” “You mean, aunt, that I am entirely dependent on Cousin Geoffrey?” asked Monica, after a pause. “Yes, but, of course, Geoff is. only too glad to do anything, dear,” Lady Valen-

tine answered, nodding. “It will be a dreadful shock to him when he finds you are not going to marry him before he goes away.” CHAPTER VII.—MONICA CONSENTS Curiously enough, it had never occurred to Monica to consider or inquire whether she had anj' money or means of support, and the information that she was entirely dependent on the bounty of her cousin came as a shock to her. Her inherently independent spirit rebelled at the idea of being a burden to anyone, dependent on charity, but the thought of standing alone in a world that was strange to her made her feel frightened. She did not know what she could do, could not even recollect whether she had ever learned to do anything which would enable her to earn a lifcng. and be independent of the charity of relations. One thing only she knew —that she did not want to become Geoffrey Valentine’s wife. As a natural consequence Monica felt depressed and wretched at heart when she left with her aunt and cousin for Bournemouth. Geoffrey Valentine, on the contrary, was in high spirits, for he had learned from his jaother that the way had been paved for him, that Monica was under the impression that she was quite alone in the world without means and entirely dependent upon him, and therefore, he should have an easy conquest. Monica now seemed to him more desirable than she had ever been. She had become suddenly more attractive to him immediately he had discovered there was a danger of losing her and her fortune; but now she did actually seem more beautiful, and he found himself looking forward to the prospect of marriage. A pretty young wife with a snug fortune had always been one of his ambitions, he reflected with a smile as—towards the end it the week —he strolled along the East Cliff with Monica and decided that he had waited long enough and must ask Monica to name the happy day. “It is difficult to believe that you have really forgotten you were engaged to be married to me, Monica,” he began, turning to ‘ her with an ardent glance. “I know you loved me before we were shipwrecked, my dear, and I wish you could remember. We plighted our troth by your father’s "bedside, and it was settled that we should be married as soon as we arrived in England.” “It seems impossible to me, Cousin Geoffrey, that that ever happened,” said Monica, with heightened colour “I have not the faintest recollection of it. You are almost a stranger to me, and I feel that I have known you only since the day I saw you in Leith Infirmary.” “But I love you, Monica!” protested Valentine, vigorously. “You know that what I have told you is true, and you surely can’t mean that you are going back on your promise now going to disregard your father's dying wish, going to —break my heart?” They had paused by a seat over-

looking the sea, and Monica sat down. It was a glorious day, and the sea was calm and shimmering in the morning sunlight, but Monica had no eyes at the moment for its beauties. “I’m sorry, Geoffrey, but—but, surely you understand how difficult it is for me,” she said slowly, after a pause. “I don’t want to make you unhappy, but at present I can’t evei* think of marrying you. Perhaps in time, when my recollection of the past returns, I may feel differently—at present, I don’t care for you enough to marry you.” “Oh. that’s all nonsense, my dear!” exclaimed Geoffrey. “You can’t have changed so suddenly, and your illness can’t be allowed to alter all our plans and spoil our lives. After all, you are engaged to be married to me, and — well, I must hold you to your promise What do you propose to do if you don’t marry me?” “I don’t know,” Monica answered tremulously. “I feel helpless and utterly wretched. I had no idea that I was dependent on you.” “Oh, don’t worry about that, my dear girl,” interposed her cousin quieklv. "I promised your father I would loo~k after you. always, and I should have done that even if I hadn’t been in love with you. But lam rather awkwardly placed just now, and if you persist in refusing to marry me things will be decidedly complicated.” “I don’t quite understand.” “I promised that I should not join the Army until after we were married, and I had provided a home for you and left you comfortably settled,” explained Geoffrey, lying with confidence. “Now I have applied for my commission, and the mater is going away in a fortnight, and I shall be at mv wits’ end to know what to do. You can’t be left alone among strangers, and I shalf have to withdraw my application for a commission in order to keep my promise to your father.” “You must not stay!” exclaimed Monica, suddenly turning to him. “You should not stay because of me, Geoffrey. I absolve you from your promise and bid you go. It is your duty to your country, and your country must come before me.” “My promise was made to your father, Monica, and you cannot absolve me from it,” Geoffrey responded readily. “You are asking me to break a promise to a dying man; you want to break your own promise to me—break your pledged word—the word of a Moncrief! It isn’t right. I refuse to six® up, Monica* X love you, and

I want you to marry me—to marry me at once.” • He caught Monica’s hand and held it fast, and although she did not attempt to withdraw it from his grasp, - she shrank away from him instinctively. “You will only be doing the right thing and making things easier for everyone, Monica,” he urged, as she did not answer. ‘ If you insist upon it, you can be my wife in name only until you recover your memory, or until I come back after the war; but you must marry me at once. Think it over, my dear, and give me your answer tomorrow. Talk it over with my mother, if you like. I want you to be happy, and to do the best for you.” “Very well,” said Monica, in a toneless voice, rising to her feet. “I will give you an answer to-morrow. At present, I feel that it is rather a pity I ever recovered.” “Oh, I say, Monica,” exclaimed Geoffrey, somewhat alarmed. “That’s rather rough. After all. I’m not an ogre, and even if you don’t regain your memory, you’ll soon learn to love me and become accustomed to the idea oi being Mrs. Geoffrey Valentine, and I’ll give you a jolly good time, as soon as this beastly war is finished. Think it over, my dear, and don’t be unreasonable.” Monica “thought it over,” and the thinking did not make her any the happier or reconcile her to the idea, yet she could see no way of escape. It did not occur to her seriously to doubt anything either Geoffrey or his mother had told her, although she found it somewhat difficult to believe it all. But she blamed everything on the change wrought in her by her illness and her loss of memory. (To be Continued.)