The HALF-CLOSED DOOR

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 700, 27 June 1929, Page 14

The HALF-CLOSED DOOR

48?

J.B.Harris-Burland

Author ot " The Black Moon.” ” The Poison League. 0 " The White Rook," Ac. Ac

CHAPTER V (Continued) How smoothly everything had gone. The marriage had been no liole-in-the-corner affair. There had even been a reporter with a camera, and Pelling had been questioned about his record in the war. He had not sought this publicity, but he had not objected to it. With his mind so full of other matters, lie had not seen that perhaps it was not quite wise of him to allow his portrait to be published in an illustrated paper. And certainly he did not think of it now as he held Mary "in his arms. The world was so small that it only contained two people. It had shrunk to two rooms in a shabby little house in a narrow little street off the Fulham Road.

The picture was rather smudgy, but Susie Croad could easily have recognised Dick Pelling, even if the letterpress underneath had not informed her that this was “The marriage of a distinguished soldier who won the D.C.M. and the M.C. for two signal acts of valour in the war.” Susie Croad had finished her breakfast and had seated herself in her little garden, when she opened the paper and realised that something had happened which affected her own life. Years had passed since Susie Croad—now known to her very respectable friends at Mexham Hill as Mrs. Hibberd, —had seen a picture in the illustrated papers that had so interested her. The last bad been far uglier than this—just Jimmie and Sam and Peter in a row with a spiked railing in front of them. But it had not moved her to anything like the same extent. As she caught sight of Pelling’s face she pressed her lips tightly together, and a hard, cruel look came into her eves. He had not told her of this—that he was going to he married to this chit of a girl. Mrs. Croad held the paper close to her eyes and she seemed to he more interested in the girl than in the man. “Miss Mary Dearden.” she said aloud. Then she lit a cigarette, and her fingers trembled as the match flared out and she held the flame against the white cylinder That quivered between her lips. Well, no doubt the girl was better looking than the snapshot had made her. She seemed a queer little boyish creature with big eyes. Of course she had money. Dick Pelling could not have afforded to marry anyone without money.

"Miss Mary Dearden.” laughed Susie Croad. And then suddenly she rose to her feet, crumpled up the paper, flung it on the grass, and went indoors. Her garden—the back yard as she called it —was no Diace for the display of emotion. It was overlooked by half a dozen houses. And at Mexham Hill a woman in tears would have almost caused a scandal. The emotional side of human nature was just a little cramped at Mexham Hill. The “best people” showed neither anger nor sorrow nor joy in the presence of their fellows. One could laugh, but not loud. One could mourn, but only with calm dignity. Susie Croad, originally rather primitive, had found this discipline excellent, and it even promised to be a. very useful asset in the future. Her present mood, however, brooked no restrictions. She was furious with Felling for having married, and all the more furious because there was no earthly reason whyhe should not have done so. She was a married woman, and she had no claims on a man -whom she had not even seen for five years, until that encounter in the offices of Blindon and Co. Yet the memory of “The Boy” had always been with her, and but for her influence over the others, he would certainly have been given away to the police. He had, of course, flirted with her, as young men will flirt with an exceedingly beautiful and attractive woman. But he had never been serious in his rather open love-making. And she had not fallen in love with him then. She had only seen the possibility of falling in love with him. It was during the long years of the war that she had thought of him more tenderly. And then there had been that meeting at the office It seemed to her now. as she sat alone in her drawing room and stared through the open French windows at the green patch of lawn, that it. was that sudden meeting, and the change in him—the change from a foolish boy to a war-hardened man—that had done the mischief. The seed might have been sown long before, but it was not until then that the plant of love opened its blossoms to the sun. . She had fallen in love with him, and since then she had made up her mind to do everything in her power to attract him. She had pictured to herself a scene in which she would tell him that she could not marry Charles 'Blindon— another scene in which she would confess the trutlj, and swear to run straight if only he would help her. That she already had a husband did not seem to matter to her at all. Croad was near the end of his days. No one could live Croad’s life for another three years. She had begun—so quickly had her

mind moved —to look upon Richard Pelling as the man who would one day give her the gnly real happiness she had even known in her life. And now—he had married, and there was his portrait in the paper, fluttering about somewhere in the garden. The portrait of the woman too —the woman who was probably just a silly girl-—like the dozens of girls that played tennis at the Mexham Hill Club! A young girl with a Ijoyish figure, and no doubt a comfortable dowry! A simpering girl, bending her head to avoid the confetti th \ had been thrown at her! And the bitterest thought of all was that neither of them had given her any cause for anger. Neither of them had annoyed her in any way. She had no right to the just and awful fury of a woman scorned. This “love” of hers was purely a creation of her own brain. If she inhired him or the girl he had married, she would be the vilest sort of woman—contemptible in his eyes for ever. And her own conscience—even women who steal have a conscience—would give her hideous torment.

And yet, as she sat there, she longed to torture both the husband and the wife. And there was nothing impotent about her rage. She had an instrument of torture in her hand, and could use it whenever she chose. At any moment she could send Dick Pelling to prison, but that would be too crude and clumsy a vengeance for a woman of Intellect. Year after year she could hold her knowledge like a whip over his head, and watch him writhe at the sight of it. And she could fill the wife’s mind with suspicions. Oh, she could hurt them both — make their lives one long, slow agony. That he could strike back mattered not at all. All her life she had seemed to be in a prison cell. She thrust out her arms on the cushions of the sofa and buried her head between them. How easy it would be to ruin the lives of these two young people. And yet—looking at the matter from the point of view of a woman who had not entirely lost her self-respect—how hard. If only he had really made love to her, and had thrown her over for this girl, how different it would have been. It just came to this. Was she willing to go clean down into the depths to satisfy her longing—that intense longing to destroy the happiness that might have been her own, if she had only had a little more time given to her? At that moment it seemed to her that she would set the world in flames to bring about the ruin of two innocent lives. And yet, even then, she was not incapable of reason. Possibly her mood of madness might pass. And she fancied that it would I pass. | If only Dick Pelling had done some- | thing that would make him a fair ' target for her arrows! Unreasoning j fury would soon die because it had so I little to feed upon. But, given a cause ! of offence, it would live. CHAPTER VI. ; Dick Pelling, who rose an hour later i than his wife because she had to get up early and cook the breakfast, came j into the sitting room, and picked up

the only letter that had come for him by the morning post- The handwriting was large and childish, and the name of the street had been mis-spelt. Mary, still busy with two kippers that were frizzling on the gas stove, smiled at him and said, “I expect that’s from one of the men in your regiment,’* “Very likely from Sanderson, he said, tearing open the envelope. “X sent him our address and asked him to drop in one evening.” He took out the letter and read it. It was not from Sanderson, nor even from anyone in particular, for the writer had not signed his name. “Sir,” read Pelling. “The less you ’ave to do with perlice, fche better. It doesn’t do for you to git too thick with ’em, and you knows why.” That was all —just these few words on a dirty half sheet of paper. Pelling crumpled it up and put it in his pocket. If there had been a fire in the room he would have burnt it. Mary placed the breakfast on the table, and sat down opposite to him. He praised her cooking, praised the toast and the coffee, and then began to talk of a new job that had been offered to him. There would be no increase of salary, but there would be a chance of rising to a really good position, if he showed his employers that he was worth the money. “Was the letter from Mr. Sanderson?” queried Mary, when she had listened to him for a little while. “No, dear. It was nothing of any importance at all.” She asked no more questions. She knew that it was something he did not wish to talk about. Otherwise he would have shown it to her, even if it had been just a circular. The incident, trifling as it was, depressed her. No doubt the letter was, as he had said, of no importance whatever. Still he could so easily have handed it to her. • She felt that they were old married folk already—a fortnight after their marriage. That was just how a husband would behave when he had been married for a year or two. She watched him carefully during that hurried meal, and found him just the same as he had always been. He did not seem to be worried or different in any way. He kissed her passionately before he left the house at nine o’clock. But he left her with something to think about until his return. Dick Felling was more annoyed than frightened by the message. He baa no doubt whatever that it had been sent him by Jimmie, who had seen him talking to Detective-Inspector ; Sanderson. No doubt, Jimmie, thinking over the matter for three . had- magnified the trivial incident. And yet—it was odd that Jimmie should have troubled himself about i the matter. It was not Jimmie, ou he. Dick Pelling, who had reason to | be afraid of-'the police. Jimmie ha served his sentence and was a «- re man. But it was irritating to think tna Jimmie or any other member of tn gang, except Susie Croad, took a 0?, further interest in him. They had behaved so decently to him over t Bextable affair. And now —he WIS S. them just to leave him alone. : this letter was evidence that they o not intend to leave him alone. (To be continued daily'