Under The Shadow

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1065, 1 September 1930, Page 5

Under The Shadow

Elizabeth York Miĺer

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

CHAPTER N 11l

She had really put him into a bit of a quandary, although ho did not intend to let her know it. As far as the Italian dancer was concerned, his conscience, was clear, but the introduction of Sir Ridgeworth Bevans complicated matters. The specialist, unfortunately, was not in a position to give sound testimony. On that same very hot July day Enid Westmore had a little adventure of her own. Its conclusion left her limp and lifeless. David and she had met, but. not by accident. Sho had awakened to find a telegram on the tray with her early morning tea. It was from him. 1 want, to see you and explain something very important. Will call at eleven. You can say you are out if you won’t see me—David. A wild exultation leapt, in her heart. “David—David —David!” it sang, and then sank mutely. What was the good of his seeing her? What could he explain? The letter? His going away with Adela Montrose? It was all ended between David and herself. She was pledged to marry Lionel, holding herself as a sort of hostage for ‘‘value received.” Hurst had been kind to her —kinder even than she knew, and she knew or guessed quite a lot. It wasn’t that he could keep her preserved in a state of luxury. Indeed, compared to his, Enid’s life with her father had been simple, and devoid of costly externals, and she did not covet them. The fact remained that he had pulled her father’s name out of the mire, and for that she had pledged herself. The horror of it was, that she could not —no power on earth would induce her—go back on her own word. It was eight o’clock when she read the telegram. As it neared eleven the servants had not as yet been told that she would not receive David. At ten to eleven they were told that she was expecting him and would see no one else while he was there. A very different girl from the Enid ne had known awaited David. Like her adventurous step-mo-ther she, too, was in black, but there was nothing outre in the little crepe jumper, which had been chosen for lightness of weight, and simplicity of character. The soft hair, like the burnished brown wing of a thrush, was brushed back smoothly and knotted behind in a silken coil. She had taken off Lionel Hurst’s ring, not because she was expecting David, but because it glittered too brightly, and substituted on the same finger a circle of pearls that had been her father’s gift when she was presented at court. Tlip impishness had gone out of her face, and her complexion had lost a little of its freshness. She was almost plain. Today, as on that former occasion, there were flowers in the morningroom, but not the wall-flowers, daffodils and primroses from Old Ways. They were the hothouse offerings of Lionel Hurst, and accordingly very splendid.

As she waited—she had been waiting, in fact, ever since that telegram arrived —Enid tried to reason out what had happened, and why David and she had parted, in the first instance. It may be remembered that she hadn’t accepted his letter on its own saying and was going off to him directly when the paper boy clattered by chanting the news of her father’s failure.

It would be strange to meet again after so much time had passed, and so much had happened. He would find her changed, and perhaps she would find him changed, too. She might discover that she did not love him, after all. But when he came in she realised with a sharp pang that if possible she loved him more than in the old days, before suffering had tried out her heart. She had been a spoiled child then, and now she was a woman.

They exchanged a long look. It seemed so difficult to speak. Then the man held out his hands and Enid placed hers in them. He made no effort to draw her to him, but they just stood there looking into each other’s eyes. Then David lifted her hands, so slim and strong and beautiful, and kissed each in turn before lie released them.

“Poor Enid! You’ve gone through such a bad time,” he said. “I wonder what you must have thought of me.” She winked back the tears, and asked him to sit down. They sat together, side by side, on the big Chesterfield, not looking at each other, now, for the strength was not in either of them to endure too much.

“I thought,” she said in her straightforward manner, “that you jilted me because of father’s trouble. But I didn’t understand it. It didn’t seem like you.” “I never heard of that trouble you mention until a few days ago,” David replied. “I was in deep trouble myself. Do you remember that last week-end at Old Ways?” “Of course I do.”

“Do you remember the talk at dinner one night—about a man who had been told he was doomed, and who hung himself?’ “Oh, poor, poor father!” slie exclaimed with a little gasp. “And r said such cruel, thoughtless things! But what do you mean, David?” “Only this, my dear. I, too, was one of Sir Ridgeworth Bevans’s ‘victims.’ I had been to him that day on the advice of my own doctor, and Bevans told me I had only six months or less to live. That’s why I gave you up, Enid. I couldn’t bear to tell you the truth because ... it would have been harder, you see. But Mrs. Montrose knew.”

“Oh, David!” The cry came from the depths of her broken heart. “You suffered and wouldn’t let me share it. How could you be so cruel? You—you told another woman, but you wouldn’t tell me. Another woman has been with you all this time, while I ” She broke off with a wild sob.

David rose and walked away from her. He stood at. the mantelpiece with his head bowed on his arms. “I know—it was wrong,” he said in muffled tones. “Everything I did was wrong. T was much more wrong than poor Bevans, for after all, lie

didn’t know what lie was doing. Even had he been sane, how could he arrogate to himself the. power of God Almighty and say when a man is to die?”

He turned and faced her, looking drawn and tired. “I ought to have continued my ordinary life. I should never have given you up. I acted like a fool. And now ?” “And now ?” she repeated blankly. “I am going to marry Lionel Hurst. He saved my father’s name, and after —after losing you, nothing that I did seemed to matter very much.” “Last week I Risked Adeia to marry me,” he confessed in his turn. “It was just before 1 found out that i wasn’t likely to die as soon as predicted. There were several reasons why I asked her. I can’t explain them all to you. She has been very kind to me, for one thing.” “Don’t!” Enid exclaimed, her voice sharp with pain. “1 can’t bear it. Why did you come back to hurt me like this? Why did you have to tell me?” Before thinking they rushed into each other’s arms. The barriers were down. “Because I love you—because I can’t bear it, either,” he cried. “Do you think I'll let you marry any man in the world but me? Do you think I will ever take any woman to wife but you?” CHAPTER XIV. Hurst was a few minutes late getting to Bedford Square that evening for dinner. The interview with Olive Gilder had detained him longer than he realised. Enid’s chaperon, pleading a sick headache, had already retired to her own room, and the girl perforce dined with her lover alone. It was a melancholy meal. The cook was nothing to equal the French chef Olive had left behind her in the Park Lane flat, and Hurst was not put into a better temper by indifferent food. The sight of Enid’s stricken face across the board took away what little appetite the meal had not already killed. For weeks now the banker had lived in an atmosphere entirely foreign to his nature. He possessed a jovial disposition, and it w r as very tiring for him to pull 'down the corners of his mouth continually and dwell in perpetual mourning. “Oh, cheer up,” he said, irritably, when the sweets had arrived and had been scarcely tasted. “We might as well be married as the way we are What say we run down to Maidenhead? We can have a bit of supper and a bottle of fizz at old Pindle’s. The heat’s gone to my brain.” Enid was more hurt than shocked. “Really, Lionel, you mustn’t ask me to go anywhere—just yet,” she murmured.

“Oh. I know! But it’s all bunkum. Your father wouldn’t like you to coo]) yourself up like this. Besides—you might think of me once in a way.” The girl flinched as though he had struck her. It was true, she scarcely ever thought of him, except to wish that she wasn’t going to be his wife. A dozen times it had been on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she had seen David, and that they couldn't give each other up. But each time her lips refused to utter the words.

She was in honour bound. This engagement of hers to Lionel Hurst was no ordinary agreement to marry, wherein a man an woman, presumably in love with each other at the start, might discover that they were unsuited to spend all their lives together. She had never pretended to be in love with Hurst. A great resentment surged over her that he should have taken advantage of her father’s trouble to force such a promise from her. Yet she had promised.

For a delirious moment that day when David held her in his arms, it had seemed possible that the world could right itself; in fact, that it must. It was only after he had gone that she began to realise the hopelessness of such a thing. The banker lit his cigar without troubling to ask her permission. Already he was taking on the careless manners of a husband. They had been thrown together alone a great deal during her father’s illness, and Hurst’s nerves did not stand the test very well. Why couldn't she marry him quietly, at once, tomorrow? Perhaps she would if he told her the truth about something. He liad kept it from her previously so as not to hurt her feelings, but that might be mistaken chivalry. Sometimes a proud girl like Enid needed to have her spirit broken a little. She mighi be all the better for eating humbie pie. A crushed flower gives forth the sweetest perfume. That Was it, h.> must be blunt, let her know exactly where she stood, and then there would be no more of this dallying. The poor dinner he had just eaten ran his desire to possess Enid a elosp second. He had had the flat in Park Lane done over, and he longed to be completely established there with his clever, handsome young wife. In imagination he saw her queening it over a select social circle, blazing with jewels, sought after, photographed for the illustrated papers, and generally radiating such distinction as would reflect the greatest admiration upon himself. He must wait for all that, and he was tired of waiting. It was very dull in this house. Hurst did not specially admire the mellow aspect of age, nor even the old portraits. There were no old portraits in his own family. Enid must be painted, of course. He ran through his mind who was most worthy to undertake such an important task. Ah, this eternal waiting! “Fetch a cloak, my dear. I shall die if we stay here.” he commanded in a voice of authority. “You’re coming for a drive with me whether you like it or not. Do you good.” Enid rose, a queer expression in her eyes. Should she tell him now about David and herself? Should she tell him that they couldn’t possibly be parted; that she’d kill herself rather than that? He was smiling at her, having full confidence in her obedience. He was not. used to being disputed when lie talked in that tone.

“Hurry up!” lie advised. “I’ve got something very important to tell you, too.” Had David, perhaps, seen him and pleaded for their right to belong to each other? David meant to. She knew that. Perhaps Lionel would relent and let her off that infamous bargain. After all, her father had been his friepd, and he had said that the tangle was easily straightened out. Surely he would have done that much for her father on the score of friendship alone. She began to wonder again if she dared to hope, like a poor, bruised little mouse that has crept successfully a few inches from the cat’s cruel paw. Yet Lionel Hurst was not cruel by nature. Only circumstances made him appear to be so. Also, he had the average man’s abounding faith in himself where the woman he loved was concerned. lie was convinced that once she was bis wife, ICnid would love him. He would awaken her placid nature, and doubtless the day would come soon when she would thank him for not letting her go. “I won’t be long,” she said, after a short interval of hesitation. She went upstairs and put a black velvet evening cloak over her thin crepe dress. The dead black made her look older than she was. Her face was thin, her eyes big and heavy. “What is he going to do with me?” she asked herself in the glass. It was strange that Lionel Hurst should have such power over her life. She had grown from childhood treating him with impudent but sincere affection, and all the time he had been falling in love with her. She remembered now that when she was only fifteen and had teased him about being a confirmed old bachelor, he had replied, “I’m waiting for you to grow up, Enid.” She had taken it for a joke and laughed very heartily. But there was precious little joke about it now. Downstairs in the hall Enid found Hurst waiting for her. He hadn’t troubled about either a liat or overcoat for himself. The night was so warm. “It’s a grand car, ain’t it?” he said, as they glided away through the quiet streets. It was, in fact, the last word in cars, cushioned, upholstered and fitted in luxurious harmony with its roominess, deep springs and powerful engine. One could not imagine Hurst driving any other sort of car. “Where are we going?” she asked, helping to make a prelude of small talk which taxed her patience to the breaking-point. “[ told you. To Maidenhead. No- j body need see you,” he added. “We can have supper in a private room.” “I don’t think I care for that,” she said. “All bunkum. Ain’t you going to be my wife? And sooner than you think, my dear.” The girl sat quiet, but her heart was beating furiously. The cat had tapped the poor little mouse very gently. “Well? You said you had something to tell me,” she ventured. “Something important.” She wondered why he wasn’t making love to her as he always did when they were alone together. Perhaps he wondered himself. His cigar being finished, he struck a match to light a cigarette and for a <;oup!e of seconds she had a vivid glimpse of his face, heavy, determined, selfindulgent. It was a remarkable face in that it reflected so few of his good qualities. “Now, look here, my girl, there’s jutlit one or two things to settle. You’ve got to marry me tomorrow or next day, and get it over. It’s not fair to either of us. Take you, for instance—you haven’t a penny piece in the world. Oh, I didn’t mean to tell you, and you weren’t too inquisitive when you signed all the papers you’ve been asked to lately. I saved your father’s name as I promised— I’m one for keeping my promises, I am —but it cost me something, I can tell you. The roof over your head. Old Ways, the food you eat, even the shoes on your feet —it’s all paid for by me. Ask your father’s lawyers if you doubt my word. I’ve sunk pretty well a third of all I possess to clear old Adrian. And now you want to ‘welsh’ on me? Oh, yes, you do. I’ve seen it in your eye. It was there tonight as clear as daylight. Do you think I did it for your father? Well, it ain’t likely, fond as I was of the old bird. He wouldn’t have taken it, wouldn’t have expected it. No, my girl, I did it for you. You’re bought and paid for. That’s the only way I could get you, and I knew it.” A million golden specks like baby stars floated before Enid’s dazed eyes. Had she fainted? Not quite. She lifted a numbed hand to her forehead. It was as though something had struck her there. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she heard herself asking. But it wasn’t her own voice at all—just the ghost of it. “Wasn’t any reason. And the time hadn’t come, either.” The great car bowled along smoothly. 5 By now they had left the tramlines behind and the country, dim in the fading light, stretched mysteriously into space. CHAPTER XV. Until the end of her life Enid Westmore was never to forget that evening. Every detail of it was destined to stand out in her memory with a vividness that made her shiver whenever she recalled it. The only excuse for Hurst was that he had been going through a great strain and was thoroughly tired out. His nervous energy was tremendous, but tonight he had overtaxed it, perhaps over-estimated his ability to keep control of himself. He did not spare Enid any of the facts of her complete dependence upon him. Indeed, he rubbed it in. The girl was sick to her very soul. If only she were free to turn her back on him and earn her own living, or starve. Starving would have been easy. But he held her as with a steel chain. It was as though she Avere his slave. “Bought and paid for” —those were the Avords he had used. “You’ll marry me in a couple of days,” he urged. “As soon as I can get a special licence, and things fixed up. All these blessed things I have to do Avon’t give us chance for much of a honeymoon, but Avhat say avc run down to Old Ways for the Aveek-end? You knoV, I’m right fond of the mouldy old spot. It Avants a bit of doin’ up, though. We’ll see about that, eh?” Old Ways Avas his. He could do what he pleased Avith it, commit any sacrilege that came into his mind. “You’ll marry me day after tomorrow, eh?” It Avas more a command than a question. “Yes,” she replied dully. She would have to marry him. There was absolutely no other way out for her. The horror of that evening continued. In raptures he took her into his arms and covered her cold face ■with kisses. The violence of his passion terrified her and her heart beat

as wildly as an imprisoned bird’s. It j Avas dark and he could not see the hoc j ; ror and loathing in her eyes. She 1 gave a gasp of relief when the car j turned into the well-known Thames ; 1 side resort, and doav it was she who i i clamoured for the distraction of publicity. No, she would not have supper in a private room. Couldn't they ; sit out on the lawn? It really didn’t j ' matter what people thought about her j being here, “enjoying herself” so ! soon after her father’s death. As a j matter of fact she was not likely to see anybody she knew. A pierrot troupe was giving an open- ; air performance on a little floating stage at the bottom of the garden, where the river flowed sluggishly after the long drought. Enid professed the keenest desire to hear them. “I guess you’re happy when your girl loves you, I guess you’re happy and you don’t feel blue, I guess you're happy all through and ! through. When the girl you love, loves you.” Hurst joined in the chorus under h»s breath, and reached for Enid’s hand, j

A waiter brought them sandwiches and the bottle of champagne which had been ordered. “I guess you're happy when your gi: i loves you! It’s a good song ain't it .” he asked, chanting between huge bites and gulps, feeling ever so muci better as the wine stirred his seuser, and insisting upon squeezing Enid's hand at intervals. “You do loA r e me. Enid, don’t you?” “Shall I lie to you?” she asked in piteous accents, her voice quivering. “Oh. well, you will. You're tho proud, you know. You don't like lo feel that I'm your, mathter. You'll lo\ r e me right enough when the tima comes. You're all fire under the ice, my dear. It'll break through. What do you know about lo\'e, anyway? T can teach you a lot. eh?” He forced her to share a little of tb champagne with him, and for a mad moment it seemed to her that the only I possible way by which she could enI dure this torment was to drink enou- i j to make her forget, or at least be indifferent. To such a pass had she 1 come. <To be Continued Toniorrow.>