The Half-Closed Door

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 712, 11 July 1929, Page 5

The Half-Closed Door

WB/mr&r

J.B. Harris-Burland

Author of “ The Black Moon " •* The Poison League/’ ** The White Rook,** Ac..

CHAPTER XV.—Continued.

"Xo, Mary—it's not altogether money. Though, if 1 were very rich 1 could smooth things over.” "Dick, dear, if you are in trouble you ought to tell me. Even if I can’t help you, I can—well, it is sq much harder to fight alone, isn’t it?” ‘I ought to have told you before we married,” he said fiercely. Ive behaved like a brute. But I thought my past life was over and ‘lone with. But. for an accident that *oul<i have been the case. I was so certain that I was quite safe. That’s no excuse. I haven’t any excuse to offer. I’m goiug to tell you now — "ell, Mary dear, it was you who sent me in here to think matters over. Just now—in your sleep—you cried out - ‘Why don’t you tell me the truth, Dick?’ That is what you cried out * And I came in here to think u over. You must have had something on your mind, Mary. I just "anted to decide whether it would h e better for you to imagine vague errors, or let you know the truth. Thats shocking enough, but you mi?ht have been thinking of something even worse.” paused, hoping that she would N °lunteer some statement, give some 1 ‘ Ue as to the nature of her dream. But si l © only replied: ‘‘l have often that something was wrong, Dick

dear. I saw you one day when you thought I was asleep—you were staring out at the garden—as though,” she laughed, ‘‘it was full of enemies.” For a few' moments he was sltent. Then he suddenly blurted out, ‘‘You I are married to a thief.” j ‘ Dick, dear, you are talking nonsense.” ; ‘‘No, it's just the plain truth. A thief —a real professional thief—that’s what I was—before the war. I had only one adventure, and that was a failure. - But l am a thief, though I’ve never stolen anything in my life. And the police, I daresay, are still looking for me.” “The police?” she said in a low voice. This was something quite different to anything she had imagined. She could not fully grasp the meaning of it, so wide is the gap between a normal peaceable citizen and those who go in fear of the police. ‘‘Yes, but it is not the police who are hunting me down. Well, it’s no good goiug on talking in this vague fashion. I’ll give you all the facts. But the Richard Felling I’m going to talk about is not the Richard Pelling you know. I make no excuses for myself. I’m a man who went wrong, and then the war gave this man a chance. He thought he’d left the old life behind him. But that’s no excuse for not telling you, Mary. It’s that which is the rotten part of the business.” She rose to her feet, and looked at an empty chair. But he caught hold ! of her hand. “Don’t judge me,” he said, “before ' you have heard my story.” The story was told. It flowed from

his lips in a torrent ot' words. The telling of it occupied half an hour, and even then it was incomplete. But Mary asked no questions. She just sat on the arm of the chair and listened. Her left hand never moved from her husbands shoulder. At times it la y 0 limp and lifeless. At others the fingers closed and gripped the thin flannel of his shirt. Twice he paused to light his pipe, but he did not look up at her. He had made up his mind that, in this matter, there | should be no appeal to sentiment. llt was not to be an appeal, but a plain statement of facts. “That’s just how I stand,” he concluded. “I’ve been dragged into this rotten diamond business, though I’ve had nothing whatever to do with it. : And I’ve made up a yarn that l can’t | substantiate. Well, I’m going to fight ! the brutes. In fact, I must fight them, ! for I haven't the faintest idea who I stole the diamonds.” i Mary said nothing! She was thinking of the anonymous letter. “This Mrs. Croad,” she said, “what sort of a woman is she?” “A jolly good sort,” he replied. “She is doing all she can for me. But the gang have broken loose. You see, Susan Croad has finished with them. She’s like me—she wants to settle down.” “Her future is in your hands, Dick.” "Yes, I suppose it is.” “She was in love with you?” “Great Scott, no.” laughed Felling. “Of course, she is a very beautiful i woman, and I—well, I may have flirted with her a bit. But it was never serious. Just a laugh and a joke, that’s all.” “Is she an educated woman—a refined woman, Dick?” “Oh, yes. Even Croad has not been able to crush that out of her. She’s been in his hands all the time. I am i very sorry for Susan Croad. She's ; had a rotten life.” “You wouldn’t give her away, Dick —even to save yourself?” “I’ve never looked at it quite like that, Mary, fou see, she's nothing to Ido with this persecution, and the : others wouldn’t spare me in order to | save her. There's a clean cut bej tween them now. Well, Susan Croad does not matter. You know the sort i of husband you've got.” He paused and looked up at her. She was staring straight in front of her. Her face j was very white, but there were no j tears in her eyes. I “A thief!” he continued. “There’s • no getting over it. At one time when I I was out in France I thought I could i get away from the past. The old world seemed to have gone to pieces then, and I had an idea that all the old life had gone with it. But I made a mistake. Mary Pelling rose to her feet and S stood by the fireplace, resting her arms on the mantelpiece. Her back ! was turiied to her husband. “Is our world broken, too?” he said. “Well, if it is. Mary, it's my fault. I shouldn't blame you if you left me. I don't want you to tell me that this j makes no difference to you. because you love me. That’s all clap-trap It’s just because you do love me that it makes all the difference in the world to you. You're in love with a thief, and you may be the husband of a convict. One can’t get sentimen- ; tal over that.”

“Don’t rub it in, Dick.” she replied: “It hurts enough without your rubbing it in.” “I you to quite understand, old girl,” he continued, Rising from his chair. “You’ve got to face the facts. I ask your forgiveness most humbly for having kept them from you.” She turned and faced him. Her cheeks were aflame and there was an angry light in her eyes. “Oh. that!” she said. “That’s nothing. You did what you believed to -be right. You’re not a coward. It’s not that.” He looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face. Then he said: “It’s the disgrace, of course —the fact that L was a thief. Mary. I thought you’d be sensible about that. A man can try and make good, however low he has fallen. And often he makes a workmanlike job of it. You did not marry Dick Pelling, the thief —you married Dick Pelling, the soldier.” “It’s not that,” she said again. “What is it?” “It’s that beastly woman!” she exclaimed—“that horrible woman ! You want to protect her. and I daresay, all the time, she’s at the bottom of this blackmailing business.” “Oh, no. Mary, dear.” he laughed. “You don’t know Susie.” “I don’t want to —I can guess what she is! And if they touch you. I’ll ruin her—l’ll drag her out into the daylight and let people see what she is.” “I wouldn’t let you do that. Mary.” he said quietly. “I'm going to play the game as far as Susan Croad is concerned.”

“Then you play it alone!” she replied. “I will stand aside. - I shall go home tomorrow to mother. You’d better give up these rooms and go abroad —escape while there is. yet time. You’ve only one weapon of defence against these brutes, and if you won’t use it. you’d better run away from the battle.” She moved toward the door, opened it, and looked back - at him over her shoulder. “You can sleep in here on the sofa,” she said. “It doesn’t matter what ; the landlady thinks.” “Mary, dear —don’t be absurd—l tell you this, woman is doing all she can for me. Mary ” She slipped through the doorway j and closed the door behind her. He j heard another door open and close, and then the sound of a key' turning ! in the lock. He flung himself into a chair and laughed. But there was ! no mirth in his laughter. This confession, so long dreaded, might have wounded his wife in so many ways that he had foreseen. The fact that he had not told the truth before iiis marriage: /he ugly fact that he was a thief, the terror of what lay before him—before both pf them: all these were separate wounds that might have cruelly injured the woman he loved. But he had never expected this. Xc man could ever have imagined that I his wife would have forgiven every- F • j thing but this friendship with another i woman. It was like straining at a 1 ; gnat and swallowing a camel, i But how splendidly she had stood

up to the shock of his confession. I What a comrade to fight by a man’s \ side when he was a tight corner! ■ There had been no tears —no re- j proaches. She had been strong and capable, and eager for battle. “If only she had not got her knife into Susie Croad.” he thought. Well, he could soon pacify her. Such an unreasonable fury against a woman she had never seen—a woman who had never done her any wrong—could not last. CHAPTER XVI. Richard Felling had underrated the tenacity of his wife’s purpose. After a sleep on the sofa that had lasted ! barely three hours, he was roused by | a shake of the shoulder, and saw her ' standing there beside him. She was dressed, and had her hat on. “Where have you been?” he said, springing to his feet. “Nowhere as yet, Dick; I’m going home.” He looked at the clock and laughed. “At this hour,” he said. “half-past five in the morning?” “Oh, no. I shall wait a bit. I dare say I shall walk about or sit in the park. It’s a jolly morning.” “Don’t be so silly, dear. Whatever will your mother think of you?” “Oh. that’s all right, Dick. They are going to Folkestone today, for a Hall’s Sulphur and Sarsaparilla Salts. A great Spring and Summer I Tonic, in the form of an effervescing rand delightful drink. • Large bottle , posted for 3s. —E. W. Hall, 11 7 Armagh j Street, Christchurch. 2

mouth. They wanted me to come with them, as you know. I shall just say I’ve changed my mind.” “Mary, my dear; surely you're not going to leave me just now.” I “Yes, I am—unless you'll let me ; fight your battle in my own way. Oh, ! I've quite made up my mind, Dick, i I’ve not slept very much. I’ve packed ! all my things.” j He smiled rather sadly. "I was j afraid of this,” he said. “Of course, ! Susan Croad is only an excuse.’ You ! think it looks better to—to put it to : me in this way.” The colour came into her cheeks. ' "It you wisli to think of it like that,” | she said. “Well, I’m going my own j way. Y'ou want to protect this ; woman. Well, protect her. but under I the circumstances I think it would be ! better if we thought out things j quietly, for a week. And I do want a ' holiday by the sea. I've gone every > year since I was a little child,” | "Yes, yes—put it like that. You waut a holiday by the sea. I can't leave London, of course. You must do what you like, Mary. On the whole, I think it will be better if you are away when the crash comes. But we must part friends. Let us have breakfast together, at any rate, an early breakfast. When do 3'our people start?” “They leave at 10 o'clock. Yes, we will be sensible and have an early breakfast. By the time you're dressed, I’ll have the meal ready.” It was half-past six by the time they . had finished the meal. There was no more quarxelling. Mary was very ! silent, but Dick Pelling explained to her again and again that Susan Croad 1 and her husband had several all coi>

I nection with the gang, and that it was quite impossible to drag them into either the Bextable or the Blind 'll burglaries.” “I’ve no evidence against either of them.” he said, “and, if you interfere, you’ll only make my destruction more swift and certain. I shall have two i lots of enemies.” 1 She smiled. “I shan't do anything." ; she replied. “How can I do anything ■ down at Folkestone? But I’m going to get you over to my way of thinking And if any harm comes to you, 1 11 hit hard in your defence. 'That's all I'm thinking of. Dick, how to get you out of this.” They went a walk in the bright morning sunshine, anil at half-pa-t eight Mary kissed him, just as she might have kissed him on any morning before he went to the City. He put her luggage 011 to a cab. and sin drove away, waving her hand to him out of the window. He was not sorry on the whole that she had taken her departure. The ! next few days would have been very painful to both of them, and now ea< h : of them could think calmly and quietly i without the distracting influence of ' the other’s presence. It would take | some little time for Mary to readjust her mind to these new circumstances. And his own mind was in need of readjustment. It would be difficult to j always think of himself as a thief — , ! in the eyes of the woman who loved I him. , ! (To be continued daily.)