UNDERThe Shadow

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1059, 25 August 1930, Page 5

UNDERThe Shadow

-•w

Elizabeth York Miller

Author of •“ Conscience,” “ Carry On,” “ The Brass Box,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER 11. (continued)

Owing to the war she had, as a specimen of young womanhood, burst ready-made upon a world that was quite properly taken by storm. She was and willowy, her features in repose slightly impertinent; the blue eyes and broad brow reflecting keen intelligence. Hair of softest golden brown brushed and groomed to the fineness of satin; a complexion of cream and palest roses; a head wonderfully set on a slender column of white throat; long-fingered slim bands —all bespoke the aristocrat. She would have made a wife in a million for the sour young Cabinet Minister, who badly needed such a one to further the interests of his career. Or, had she turned to the left and bestowed the favour upon Sir Lionel Hurst, that too-effusive gentleman would find that he had in a bound reached the top of the social ladder, up which he w*as toiling so doggedly.

But, figuratively speaking, she had looked neither to the right nor to the left, but straight ahead at David Lennox, wtyom her father regarded as too insignificant even to trouble to banish. Six months.ago they had met ft * dance in London. With the following week they had become ensued secretly, because it was Enid’s imperf,us will. To David’s demur that it was wrong of him to accept Adrian Westmore’s hospitality in such circumstances, the girl had but one tePly- Her father had once promised “® r that he would never place the slightest obstacle in the way of her marrying whom she pleased, so long as the chap was decent, and she knew her own heart. Whatever plans he might have for her future, Enid was convinced that he would surrender when she judged tee time ripe for telling him; but there was nothing to indicate that he had any plans. Xaturally, however, he would not wish his daughter to marry an adventurer who looked on *J r to her father’s millions. Possibly is was David’s own crushing secret which made it seem to him that that dinner party was different from all other dinner parties. Undoubtedly for him it was. He sat them a doomed man. making difficult conversation with the bride, nnd miserably conscious of Adela Montrose’s sympathy*. Once Mrs. Mon-

, trose clasped his hand under the table-cloth, and at that moment he glanced across and saw Enid looking at him curiously, perplexity in her eyes, as though she had seen what had happened. Sir Lionel’s jokes had to be laughed at, and the Cabinet Minister given serious attention when he made it quite clear to them what was really the internal condition of Germans’. Through it all, Adrian Westmore gave himself the privilege of his usual long silences, but when dessert came on it was he svho introduced a strange and horribly apt topic of conversation. David felt Adela Montrose start, and knew that it was on her lips to cry out a protest, but he checked her with a whispered word. “I see a fellow’s hung himself because a doctor said he only had a year or so to live,” Adrian Westmore had annoimced, apropos of nothing at all and treading hard upon the tail of one of the banker’s wittiest stories. Dead silence followed the echo of thoughtless laughter, then the Cabinet Minister grumbled. ‘‘Well, what of it?” “Nothing much,” their host replied, carefully peeling himself a peach. “Only I’ve often wondered how the average person would act if faced with something very—final.” “Murderers always eat hearty breakfasts before they’re hung, don’t they?” chirped the bride. “My dear young lady, the average person is not a murderer,” Adrian Westmore said in his best tone of sarcasm. “At least I hope not.” She was crushed. “I blame the doctor,” Mrs. Montrose said quickly. “How could he possibly know? It —it’s wicked!” Adrian Westmore chewed a slice of his peach thoughtfully. “After all, death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a man. Good lord, we’ve all got to die. It’s' the tear of death —or worse —that turns men into cowards.” “You give me the shiverths,” lisped Sir Lionel. “I think the doctor did exactly right.” Enid's cool young voice floated down the table. “He probably didn't realise he was dealing with a poor, mad fool—” “My dear, it would be a part of his business to know,” objected her father. “Well, after all, what does it matter?” A year more or less, and the man would he dead anyway,” she leplied carelessly. “In that case, the whole world might- hang itself at once and get it over with,” Atkinsbn said. “Oh, no! I don’t mean that. I believe in the survival of the fit.” “You're too healthy,” murmured Sir Lionel. “I haven’t any patience with people who aren’t,” she replied. “It means that they've sinned.” "Good heavens!” ejaculated Atkinson. “Or their forefathers have —which in its way amounts to the same thing.” “Oh, come now, Enid,” ventured the bridegroom, who was an old friend of hers. “You’re too bally sweeping What about the war? That left a few unfits, didn’t it?” “I never approved of the war,” Enid said loftily. “If you like, it was the greatest sin of all, and posterity will pay the penalty.” "Shades of Young Oxford and New Thought!” exclaimed the Cabinet,

Minister. “You .boys and girls tain a lot, but I’m blest if half of you know what you're saying.” Enid laughed, her cool impertinent laugh, and looked at David Lennox for sympathy. “What do you say to it all, David? Won't you stand up for ‘Young Ox ford'?—whatever Mr. Atkinson means by that. The last refuge of middleage is to hurl gibes at the young.” This, itself, was a gibe, for certainly the Cabinet Minister did not enjoy being called middle-aged. He made a wry face, which was Intended for a smile. “I’m afraid I don’t quite get the drift of it,” David replied. "If you mean, ‘Should a Doctor tell’; or having told, should his victim hang himself—then I’d say, that nobody could possibly answer that question truthfully unless he —or she —stood in the shoes of the doomed person. It would be a matter for personal experience.” “Snubbed!” exclaimed Enid "The only sensible . comment I’ve heard on the subject,” said Adrian Westmore. Incidentally, for the first time, he took notice of the young man whom he believed his daughter regarded merely in the light of a capital dance partner and companion for golf and cross-country rides.

“I don’t want to hurry you,” Westmore added significantly, “but I'd like my cigar, Enid.” “How delicately you put it,” his petted daughter replied. “Here’s you hat—but what's your hurry? Come along, girls. Father's so old-fashioned and selfish. He can’t bear to see us smoking.” David opened the door for them and as they trailed out, Enid stood aside to let the other two women pass her. “As soon as you can, David,” she whispered, flashing him such a smile as few men wqye privileged to receive from her. “I haven’t seen you alone yet, for a single moment.” He was saved the necessity of replying, for she passed on, not even waiting for a nod, so sure was she of her wish being his, also. CHAPTER 111. But tonight he dreaded being with her alone. Enid Westmore was human, and therefore no more perfect than David himself; but he was in no mood for the smooth cynicism she had expounded at table. As yet he had not reacted from the shock of Sir Ridgeworth Bevan’s announcement. There were moments when the thing seemed so unreal as to be farcical; but In between came periods of thought when he knew that those possible six months of life remaining to him must be grasped as an entire problem to be settled in a word. Barring accidents, he was the captain of his own soul for that long, and very likely Eternity depended greatly upon whether or not he conducted himself like a Christian gentleman. or a snivelling coward.

In the ordinary way, the hour for which he would have longed had arrived. He was alone with Enid. The others had distributed themselves according to fancy, possibly guided by her skilful management. Alone with her. on the south terrace, where the ’warmest night of May hung 1 - scents of lilac in the still air, and whispered its seductive invitation, should be enough for auy man who loved her. Alas, where In this wilderness of human pain could love find its rightful place for David Lennox? “David,” she began breathlessly, “father likes you! In the drawingroom just now he said—oh, what was it exactly? Just a word for my private ear. He said, ‘Now and again, E., you get hold of a young man who isn’t two-thirds fool. Lennox isn’t more than 10 per cent.’ Don’t laugh, David. He really meant it as a compliment.” David stood in no danger of laughing. What Adrian Westmore thought of him had never before been of such little consequence. Enid, warm against his arm, urged the point. “If you were to speak lo him lo-

night, 1 do believe he’d listen,”! she said. “We’re so tired of waiting, aren’t we, David dear?” And then he realised that this la 3l . week-end, which he had pledged himself would be the crowning joy of all that had gone before and all that lie could hope for in the future, was not going to turn out as it had promised. Here, with Enid in the warm dusk, it should have been fairly easy to-tell ner the truth. That is, as easy as it could ever be. Already, in his own mind, he was half corpse. She ought to be told. Perhaps, because he could not tell her, he was twice as great a coward as the man who had gone away quietly and hanged himself. “It wall be better to wait a little longer—until next week,” he said. ‘‘Up in town. I haven’t behaved awfully well in coming here. It’s a sort of false pretence, isn’t it?” •‘Rubbish! You carry some of your ideas too far,” Enid protested. “For instance, nothing will induce you to kiss me, of make really proper love at Old Ways. You’re ridiculous, David. As though fathers had to be considered to such an extent.” For answ'er, and to her great sur-

e prise, Ire gathered her into his arms. » Their lips met. “I love you, my dearest heart,” he whispered. “Never, never forget 11 that. Always remember, whatever e happens, that I love you.” 1 “David, you frighten me!” I- . “I didn’t mean to.” His arms slipped from her slender I waist. It was the fatal caress bei tween them, but only he knew that. II She was bright and happy, quivering 1 with the joyful pride of having com--3 pelled his surrender. Heretofore at a Old Ways he had only given her the e delights of companionship, with love held a prisoner in his eyes, and halte ing on his tongue. In his way, he was P quite as proud as she, and she undery stood and respected him for it. f They paced to and fro the length of the terrace, and Enid introduced r another note into the conversation, i' “I didn’t know that you and Adela o Montrose were acquainted before.” e she said. s, “We met for the first time today in e the train,” David replied, wondering that he could discuss anything so trivial to his own feelings as Mrs.

Montrose. “Her husband was a great pal of mins.” “You met —on the train?” Enid questioned. “Yes, she saw my name on the luggage labels —but before that I'd half recognised her. Poor Billy was always parading her photographs. Her face was very familiar to me before ” "Before what?” asked Enid. “She ask>ed me if I was David Lennox,” he replied, feeling a little flat. It was the first time that Enid had displayed the very slightest symptom of jealousy, and even now only an experienced lovemaker would have detected the signal note In her voice. "I think we’ll join the others,” she said a little abruptly. “It's growing chilly.” Half an hour later Sir Lionel Hurst surprised Enid by coming into the library, whither she had gone to write a note for her father. Some of the party were playing bridge, but Hurst had withdrawn from the circle, which usually had great fascination for him. “Hello, Enid,” he said, dropping

comfortably into a big chair; “I want a word with you, my girl.” “Yes?” she replied absently, laying down her per. “How long ith all tliith going on?” He waved a small plump hand that flashed a diamond. “Really, Sir 1 ionel, what do you mean?” “Thith love affair of yourth with the handthome boy.” The girl flushed pinkly, and her blue eyes rested with an expression of distaste upon her father’s old friend and colleague. “You fancy you’re very clever don’t you?” she retorted. "I suppose you mean David Lennox?” “He'th a uith boy; ith a pity he ain’t got a dollar to hith name,” mused the banker. “A girl like you would find it deuthed hard to be poor.” “Oh, be quiet!” Enid exclaimed rudely. “You don’t know anything about me, or abour David, either. And I shall never be poor.” Sir Lionel heaved himself out of the very comfortable chair, and hurled his cigar benevolently to the flames. “Now, don’t be croth with me, Enid. Look here, I’m going to athk you to

marry me. I don't think you could do better. I’ve got a title, and all that. Jutht a little hint. Nexth time it’ll be a peerage.” Edith's laugh would have insulted most men, but it did not seem to disturb Sir Lionel Hurst. “All right, but think it over, my girl. You might change jour mind. You never know.” “Yes, I’ll tell you i£ I change my mind,” Enid replied. (To be Continued Tomorrow.)