The Shadow of a Dream

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 270, 4 February 1928, Page 23

The Shadow of a Dream

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Charles Procter.

OI a Splendid Butterfly.* -The Woman Pays,' “The CocHwei* Combine* 'An Innocent Adventuress*’ 6c. 6c

CHAPTER XXI.—REMEMBRANCE. “At present, your ladyship, I am lift attendant at Harridge’s,” interposed Monica coldly. “I cannot use my employers’ time to discuss my personal affairs with customers. Which floor do you want?” Lady Valetine bit her lips, clenched her gloved hands tightly, and for an instant looked angry, then she sighed despairingly. ‘‘Oh, I don't want to buy anything, but—oh, take me up to the top floor.” she said, in a tone that was meant to be at once sorrowful and reproachful “Do let me talk to yo* . Monica,” she urged, as the lift began to move. “Come and see me to-night, or let me come and see you. It isn’t fair to condemn us unheard, and poor Geoffrey ” “Thank you, I prefer not to discuss the matter,” interposed Monica shortly, as she brought the lift to a standstill at the top floor, and clicked back the gate. "You are heartless and unjust!” exclaimed her aunt, maintaining with difficulty her sorrowful and reproachful expression. “At least give me your address and let me write to you, dear.” “Monica Moncrief, Lift Attendant. Harridge’s, will find me,” retorted Monica, closing the gate as Lady Valentine stepped out, and dropping out of view almost immediately. Her aunt stood still, staring through the gate at the lift shaft, but she no longer looked reproachful and sorrbwful; she looked positively fiendish. Her face was white, she showed her teeth, and her eyes glared in murderous rage. “You’ve had your chance, and you’ve refused it!” she hissed in a whisper. “Now you shall die!” She made some trifling purchase in the department in which she found herself, went down the stairs to the confectionery department and purchased several boxes of sweets, all of which she took with her, and departed without using the lift again. Monica happened to catch sight of her leaving the store, and smiled to herself, although she felt that she had been ungracious and unforgiving. After all, she reflected, her aunt had always treated her kindly, and perhaps there might b© some explanation which she should hear. Still Jerry had warned her, and she was not going to- let anything shake her faith in Jerry O'Neill now. She found herself, however, finding excuses for both Geoffrey Valentine and her aunt during the afternoon, and made herself quite depressed. And during that very time Lady Valeniine was engaged in injecting a powerful poison into some of the top row of a box of chocolates she had purchased that morning at Harridge’s. The chocolates were of a kind she knew Monica liked, also they were of a kind which could be bought at any high-class confectioners, and the poison was in-

jected by means of a hypodermic syringe. But enough was injected into each to kill—and the chocolates were intended for Monica! . That evening Lady Valentine, clad in a long cloak and closely veiled, shawowed Monica and Jervis home, carefully noted Monica’s address, then went back to her own flat. On the following afternoon she posted the box of cocolates to Monica. The address on the label was neatly printed and inside there was a card on which was written: “With love from Jervis.” “Now, that’s very strange,” exclaimed Monica. She was gazing in smiling perplexity at the box of chocolates —the box which Lady Valentine had posted to her. and which had been duly delivered at Brixton by the first post. The box, wrapped in brown paper, had been beside her plate when she came down to breakfast, and she had opened it while Miss Smith watched her curiously. “Very strange!” repeated Monica, glancing from the card enclosed in the box. “What is so very strange?” asked Miss Smith impatiently. “There isn’t anything very strange about a box of chocolates —and I suppose your fiance has sent them. What are you making such a fuss about?” Both Miss Smith Mrs. Walters knew that Monica was engaged—it could hardly be kept a secret seeing that Jervis accompanied Monica right to the very door almost every evening, and that Monica was wearing an expensive diamond ring. And Miss Smith, oddly enough, seemed inclined to be jealous and snappish. “The strange thing is that Jerry gave me a big box of chocolates last night—a much bigger box than this,” explained Monica. “I offered you some when I came home last night, you remember, and you said he was a fool to waste his money on useless confectionery. Now why should he have sent another box by post after giving me one?” “Perhaps he’s bought up a stock cheap or robbed a confectioner,” Miss Smith responded satirically. She rather prided herself on the sharpness of her tongue. “The man who is overgenerous before marriage often starves his wife afterwards.” “The queer thing is that it doesn’t look like Jerry’s writing, and he never sends things by post,” contfhued Monica. who had scarcely heard. “I must ask him about it to-night. He is certainly very extravagant in the matter of sweets and flowers. Why I have more chocolates in the house now than I know what to do with. Would you care for them, Miss Smith?” “No. thank you.” answered Miss Smith tartly. “I don’t care for chocolates.” She never knew—fortunately for herself and for she es- (

caped by refusing the chocolates. Monica finished her breakfast hurriedly, for she was later than usual, picked up the box of chocolates, deciding suddenly to take it with her to Marridge’s and share out the sweets among some of the girls With whom she was on friendly terms. It was st wet, unpleasant morning, and Monica hastily donned her hat, picked up the fateful box of chocolates and her umbrella and rushed out to catch the tramcar to town. During the journey she sat thinking of Jerry, half-smiling at his foolishness in sending her a second box of sweets after having given her one on the previous evening, and resolving to tease him about his extravagance. As soon as the tram neared the terminus she rose and made for the door, for she was late, alighted almost before the car had stopped, and ran across the road. In her haste she failed to notice an approaching motor-car until it was too late, and stumbled as she swerved desperately to avoid it. There was a scream, a shout, and next moment Monica was down in the mud, senseless and bleeding. The big mudguard of the car had struck her violently on the head as she stumbled, flinging her aside, and then it swerved sharply across the road, narrowly missing running over her. Monica’s umbrella was sent flying, together with her wrist-bag, and the box of chocolates broke open as it hit the ground, the chocolate being scattered in the mud in all directions. Monica recovered consciousness to find herself lying in a doorway, with a policeman and a woman bending over her, and a crowd of people clustered round the door staring down at her. The policeman was wiping blood away from her brow with a handkerchief, and grunted as Monica opened her eyes. “That’s better, miss,” he said encouragingly. “You ain’t killed. I’ll help you, and we’ll run you round to the hospital in a jiffy and have your head dressed. The motor that knocked you down is Outside.” He stood up, peremptorily ordered the crowd round the door to “pass along,” then helped Monica to her feet, and half-carried her down to the motor waiting at the kerb. Monica was too dazed and hurt to understand what had happened, and not until she was in the hospital, her head had been dressed and bandaged, and a restorative had been administered did she speak. And when she did speak she startled and puzzled the nurse and surgeon who had been attending her. “Where’fe Jerry?” she asked quickly and anxiously. “Was he rescued? The boat overturned, and I was flung into the water. How was I rescued? What boat is this? Has Jerry been drowned?” “Most extraordinary!” muttered the young house surgeon. “She seems to be delirious, yet there isn't any trace of fever, and that blow on the head isn’t very serious. The shock, I suppose.” “Lie still for a few minutes, my dear,” said the nurse soothingly, as Monica stared about her wildly. “You are quite safe, and I daresay Jerry is safe too. You’re not in a boat, but in St. Thomas’s Hospital. You were knocked over by a motor, but you’ll be all right presently.” “A boat,” whispered Monica, as if struggling to remember —and to explain. “The Glenogle” was torpedoed— I was flung into the water—and Jerry She, paused, closed her eyes .tightly.

and put her hands to her bandaged head. The doctor and the nurse regarded her curiously, puzzled and half inclined to conclude that the shock of the accident had upset the girl’s reason, although her injuries were not serious. “Perhaps we'd better keep her in, nurse,” said the doctor. “Put her to bed and ” “I remember now!” exclaimend Monica, suddenly opening her eyes and sitting up. “My memory has come back to me, but now I can’t remember some of the things that happened since the ‘Glenogle sank. I suppose they will all come back to me, but at present I feel confused and dazed.” A few questions by the doctor made the whole matter clear to him, and he looked both relieved and interested. “So you have been suffering from loss of memory for months, and the shock of the accident to-day has restored your memory?” he remarked. “That’s rather remarkable, and very interesting. Why the accident may almost be regarded as fortunate, as the results have been so good.” He talked for a few minutes longer, asking many questions, and then decided that she was well enough to go home. Five minutes later Monica, with her head bandaged, and the mud washed from her face and hands, but still in her costume, which was practically ruined, walked out of the hospital feeling very shaky, and with her brain in a turmoil. She found the motor which had knocked her down and brought her to the hospital still waiting, and the chauffeur, who looked anxious and miserable, hurried forward at once. “The guv’nor said I was to take you home, miss,” he said respectfully. “It wasn’t my fault, really. You ran* bang into the front of me, and I did my best to avoid you. I’m glad you’re not badly hurt. It’s the first time I’ve ever had an accident. Where can I drive you?” Monica gave him her address, and he assisted her into the- big car, which was soon speeding smoothly and swiftly toward Brixton. “No, I don’t blame you,” said Monica, in response to another anxious question from the chauffeur as she alighted before Mrs. Waltei's’s house. “It was entirely my own fault, and you have been very kind. Tell your employer,” she added, with a tremulous smile, “that I

think I’m almost glad the accident happened. It has given me back my memory.”

The chauffeur grinned, looking rather puzzled, touched his hat and drove off, deciding that the young lady, although she was so good-looking, was decidedly queer.

“A rum go to thank anybody for knocking her down,” he ruminated, “and she looked as if she was thankful too!”

Monica at that moment was being fussed over by her landlady, who had been thrown into a state of concern by her appearance, and was helping her to divest herself of her mud-stained costume, while she asked questions and uttered sympathetic exclamations. She tended Monica as a mother would have tended a hurt child, and after a hot bath, the application of liniment to her bruises, a complete change of clothing and a cup of tea, Monica felt almost herself again, although her head throbbed painfully.

“I don’t know whether I am glad or sorry that the accident happened, Mrs,. Walters,” she said thoughtfully. “My memory has come back—l can recollect everything now—but I remember some things I would rather have forgotten.” ‘Still, I’m sure you must be devoutly thankful that you’ve regained your memory all the same,” said Mrs. Walters. “The accident was really fortunate.”

Monica sighed and did not answer. She would have been devoutly thank- ; ful had she known that the accident i had saved her from poisoning several girls, and possibly herself, with the , chocolates she had been carrying to - Karridge’s.- But she did not know this, nor dream how narrowly ’she had escaped a horrible death. What she meant was that she remembered that she had been engaged to Geoffrey Valentine, that she had pledged her word to him by her father’s deathbed, that the engagement had been her father’s wish, and that a “Moncrief never broke a promise.” ‘‘lt can’t be my duty to give up Jerry and go back to Geoffrey!” she thought, clasping her hands together in distress. “Geoffrey is a coward, and perhaps he is a thief, too! I must see my aunt at once, and talk it over. After all I promised—and I gave my promise to daddy, too!” For a long time she lay on a couch, thinking. thinking, trying to decide what her duty was, and what she should do. and at length decided to call on Lady Valentine that very afternoon. MeanwhMe Lady Valentine, looking very white and haggard after a sleepless night, had paid a visit to Harridge’s early in the forenoon. She prided herself on her iron will and selfcontrol. but she trembled in spite of herself when, as she expected, she found that Monica was not at her post, and the lift was in charge of a strange young woman. She managed, however, to control herself sufficiently to inquire in tones j meant to be casual, about Monica, and I was informed that she had failed to appear that morning. “Safe!” she breathed, as she left Marridge’s. “It was the only way, and no one can suspect anyone except O’Neill. The money is ours now!” She dispatched a telegram to Geoffrey, cryptically worded. but clear enough to convey the intimation that Monica was dead. Then she went back to her fiat and drank a glass of brandy to steady her nerves. By four o’clock in the afternoon she Jiad completely, recovered herself, and

was just about to set out to pay a call when a servant entered. “Miss Moncrief to see you, my lady,” she announced. Lady Valentine stood rigid, gripping the back of a chair and staring at the maid in momentary terror and dismay. “Miss Moncrief!” she gasped. “But —but—not Miss Monica Moncrief?” She recovered herself at once, realising in an instant that her maid was puzzled and alarmed, and suddenly or- J dered the girl to show Miss Moncrief | in. She was still standing when Monica entered, and the sight of her niece gave her another shock. Monica was • very pale, dressed in black, with a close-fitting black hat which only partly concealed the white bandage i round her brow. To Lady Valentine \ she seemed like a corpse come to life, and the elder woman recoiled instinctively from her as she advanced. “Not dead, after all,” was the thought that flashed through Lady Valentine’s mind, as she dropped limply into a • chair, making desperate efforts to _ master her terror. “Not dead —and she has found out that I tried to murder her —come to accuse me! Perhaps she has brought the police!” She sprang to her feet, her face ghastly, her thin hand pressed convulsively to her side. “What do you want?” she cried desperately. “Why have you come here?” So fierce was her manner, so strange and wild her expression, that Monica drew back in alarm. “I came to talk to you, Aunt.” she said, shakily. “Is there anything wrong? Are you—ill?” Lady Valentine drew a long breath, then dropped back into her chair again. “Yes, I—l am ill —and you startled me,” she answered in a low, tremulous voice. “My nerves are all wrong—worrying about you and Geoff, has upset me, and —and you look so strange —so white ” “I met with an accident this morn- I ing,” explained Monica quietly. I was knocked down by a motor and hurt my head. But the shock of it has restored my memory.” Lady Valentine gasped again, but sat up straight in her chair, and motioned Monica to seat herself. She began to realise that Monica’s-call had apparently nothing to do with the poisoned chocolates, but that she was, nevertheless, in danger, and must be cautious. “Tell me what happened!” she said, and listened in silence as Monica told the story of the accident and its sequel. Only when Monica mentioned casually that when she was knocked down her umbrella and a box of chocolates she was carrying were both smashed, did she seem about to ask a question, but refrained. She was wondering as she listened whether the chocolates had been quite destroyed, and her heart contracted at the thought that perhaps some poor child might pick up some of the sweets and die as a result of eating them. It did not occur to her as being ironic that she should worry about the thought of a strange child being poisoned, although she had felt small compunction about trying to poison her I own niece. “Is your memory completely restored, Monica?” she asked quietly, as Monica paused. Her nerves were un- : | der control now, and her face had lost ' I its deathly pallor. "Can you remember everything?” ‘1 - .