UNDER The SHADOW

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1066, 2 September 1930, Page 5

UNDER The SHADOW

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Elizabeth York Miller

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

CHAPTER XV'.—^(Continued.)

And then, somehow, a certain memory of her father came back to her, a memory far-flung from childhood. She could have saved herself blame from some fault by a white lie, but she had told the whiter truth, and her father had said, “Thank God, my child, you played the game. Always play it straight, and you’ll never have any regrets to haunt you afterward.” And then she had learned that one of the children on the estate, the son of the second gardener, had been under suspicion for her own little sin, and doubtless would have been soundly thrashed by his father had she not confessed in the nick of time. But it would have been so easy to reply, “No, I never touched the peaches,” because that was true enough. Her father, never very accurate about details, had said ‘‘peaches,” whereas is was the apricot house she had raided, and given half the spoils to the luckless gardener’s son. He had played the game, too, for he hadn’t told on her, hut he was caught with a portion of the goods on him, whereas Enid had disposed of her share, betrayed by no ill results. Curious that that incident of long ago should force itself upon her memory now. What it possibly had to do with her attitude toward Lionel Hurst and a second glass of champagne was not very clear, but nevertheless, she seemed to hear her lather’s voice bidding her always to Play the game and play it straight.” She realised then the sad truth agairst which youth rebels eternally, that life is made up largely of sacrifice, that through the pain of it a soul grows. Youth was cast behind her. She was not young any more at all. So a great change took place. What good is the sacrifice unless love goes with it? Hurst loved her, not enough to give her up, because he didn’t understand love that way—but enough to make sacrifices of his own. Money was a great little god to him, yet he nad poured it forth like water on her behalf. She shut the eyes of her mind to 3dl that had passed between her and bavid Lennox. She would play the game and play it straight. She wouldn’t hurt this poor fellow any vu )re ’ ver y violence had a childtke quality. What he wanted, he wanted now. ®ke touched his hand gently, with t re turn she had ever made d his caresses. She laughed with when the comedian of the piert troupe gave them a dolorous chant beginning: ,A re you a married man? I am. Gracious, how did it happen?” ou n me’s going to get along tolin aei *i top-hole.” Hurst whispered, his .JJ c * ose er ear - ‘‘You wait _ d see. Already the ice is melting.”

She could find no words 1 to say, but it wasn’t so hard as she had thought to touch his hand again. She must remember how kind he had been and not trouble too much about that “bought and paid for” remark. However he fell short in other respects, he was truthful. She felt that it must have been this quality in him which had made her father his friend. She wanted to be entirely truthful,, herself, but somehow she could no:, tell him about seeing David that morning. What was the use of it? “The game” certainly did not demand such a confession. She marvelled, rather humbly, at her own power over this man who had so much power himself. She had made him entirely happy. He expanded under the gentle warmth of her kindness like tropical flowers open to the sun. The coarseness, the tendency to bullying, disappeared. On the way home he became a little lachrymose and only kissed her six times. He was getting humble himself. His wonderful Enid! She mustn’t think he was as bad as he’d probably made himself out to be. She’d been his ideal from the time her skirts were first lengthened. He wanted to live up to that Ideal. He was going to get that peerage or know why, because all honour was owed to her. It wasn’t for himself. What on earth did he care for such things? As for Old Ways, he was settling that property on her. Everything else, besides —in the event of his death. Tomorrow he’d see about his will. Day after tomorrow they would be married. “You haven’t changed your mind again, eh?” “No, indeed. The sooner I’m your wife, Lionel, the better for both of us,” Enid replied. She spoke as a woman, in the fullness of understanding. It would be much better for both of them when she was La*ly Hurst. He drew in a deep sigh, which had a succulent quality. “Good girl! I thought I’d bring you round. . . . All the same, I wish you weren’t so proud.” “I’m not proud,” she replied. "Not the least little bit.” It was nearly midnight when they got back to Bedford Square, but Hurst came in with her. Despite his long, tiring day and the tomorrow which promised to be just as full, he was reluctant to leave her. In this softened mood she was irresistible and brought out the very best that was in him. He wanted to show his gratitude for all that she promised. to declare over and over again that the gift of herself far outweighed anything he had been able to do for her. “I’m tho happy,” he said, with a certain wistful pathos when finally it came time to say good-night. “I’m glad, Lionel.” She returned his kiss and a moment later the outside door closed upon him. For a few seconds she stood alone in the litle morning-room where David and she had cried out to each other that nothing on earth could really part them. She pressed her hands to her face; but her eyes were dry and tearless. She must never see David again, now. Fate had been too strong for them—the fate which had chosen curiously for its instrument, a little gnome-like man with a diseased brain. CHAPTER XVI. David sat alone in the sitting-room of his chambers in the Temple. He had rushed up to London straightway upon hearing the news about Sir Ridgewortb Bevans. It seemed very strange to be back here with this entirely new outlook upon life. When he left he had scarcely expected to see his old rooms again. He recutlled that, morbid mood with extreme self disgust. He should never have given up the girl he loved

because a doctor told him he was going to die in six months. Even then, there had been nothing organic the matter with him, and had that supposed piece of shrapnel even penetrated his heart, there was no certitude that it wculd have killed him. He realised, now, that his attitude had been that of an ill man, and so the world might easily forgive him, but he knew that he could never forgive himself. War-bruised and forced after five years of soldiering to try to pick up the threads of a normal life again, he had fallen an easy prey to the insane scientist who was making a record of mental shock and its effect upon the victim. Even his own doctor had been befooled by Sir Ridgeworth Bevans. The specialist's standing had been so high that it was only the piling up of tragic incidents which led to the revelation of his own mental condition. Adrian Westrnore's death was the culmination, and now the fierce light of investigation blazed upon Bevans, but it was too late to undo much of the disaster he had wrought. The man who hanged himself rather than wait for the death soon promised him, and Adrian Westmore both lay in their graves. And David Lennox had given up the girl he loved. There had been other tragedies, a woman taking to drink, and a man to morphia, and a father who had been told that his only son had a fatal disease of the brain which would soon render him imbecile, living until now in perpetual torment. There had been two tragedies of the divorce court. Indeed, the list was long, but it contained also instances of great nobility and strength of character, and all of these as well as the others, had been noted, dissected and dwelt upon in -the madman’s book. Very likely he had been sane when he began that book, but as he said, himself, in the lengthy preface, “The borderland between mental health and complete loss of balance is shadowy, so thin in some cases as might be said scarcely to exist.” David had been to see his own doctor that morning, and been told positively that there was nothing whatever the matter with him. The doctor had even joked a little. “It did you any amount of good knocking off work and going into the country. Just what you needed, in fact. Of course, you were one of the sensible ones. It would never occur to you to do anything desperate, and poor Bevan’s experiment in your case, actually did you a world of good. You’ve completely thrown off all the effects of that gas attack, and if there ever was a bit of shrapnel digging its way toward your heart, it’s been assimilated by the goat-like constitution you’ve developed.” "I’m afraid I was not very sensible," David replied. “You see, I believed what the man told me.” “So did I. So did everybody,” Dr. Jackson said ruefully. “Bevans was a law unto others as well as to himself. No one would have dreamed of disputing his verdict. But in your case no harm has been done, thank God.” David had left, then. It would have served no purpose to tell the doctor that his life had been ruined almost as surely as any of the others. But still there was some hope. Sir Lionel Hurst could not be such a monster that he would wish to marry a girl who loved another man. And Adela? There he came up against something which had defied or eluded him at every touch and turn. A man cannot jilt two women in succession and look himself in the glass again without wincing. Yet what had actually happened? He had given Enid her freedom for what he supposed to be her own good, and it had cost him great suffering. As far as Adela was concerned he was a victim rather than a villain. On this sultry evening he sat with his pipe trying to think things out. His shabby old rooms were very pleasant. Just to be back here gave him a measure of happiness such as he had not enjoyed in all the ordered comfort of Hearts’ Haven. Tomorrow he must see about beginning work again, and then he must run down to Devon once more and have a serious talk with Adela. It was impossible to make his plea to Sir Lionel Hurst before he had had that talk. He tapped out his pipe, leaned back and closed his eyes. The storm which had been brewing all the afternoon

broke a little, but only a few drops of rain fell, and did not relieve the atmosphere. A knock came at the door, and David started up, wondering who it could be, since scarcely anybody knew he was in London. Then his heart throbbed madly with hope. Could it be Enid? Even as he hurried to the door he knew there was scant possibility of its being her, but he was considerably taken aback to discover that his visitor was Adela Montrose. Mrs. Montrose gave David a hard, bright smile and held out her hand with a suggestion of coolness in her manner. “I followed you up to town,” she said, bluntly. "May I come in?” He held the door wide and was conscious that her glance swept the room with disparagement. “How fond you are of living in a sort of glorified dust-bin,” she remarked, drawing off her gloves. She was dressed in grey linen with a toque of violets crushed down over her smooth dark hair. There was something very smart and elegant about her, recalling vividly the sympa-

thetic Mrs. Montrose who had made known her identity to him that day in the train going down to Old Ways. Quite a different woman from the Adela of Hearts’ Haven. At Hearts’ Haven he had scarcely noticed how beautiful she was. "What’s the matter with the old place?” David asked. “Too many books?” “Too much grime," she replied. “Oh, it’s not really dirty, and Charles didn’t have time to get a char in. You see I came home on such short notice.” "Home?” Adela echoed “Yes, of course, I suppose it is your home. Well, what did your doctor say?” “That I’m as fit as a fiddle. Won’t you sit down, Adela?” She was wandering about, looking at the medley of old pipes, jars, photographs, and other trophies on the mantelpiece, as though seeking for something. “Presently. It’s all so interesting. I’m so glad you’ve nothing to worry about, David. Didn't I toll you ail along that ten to one Sir Ridgeworth Bevans was wrong?”

“Yes, but you didn’t know he was mad. Do sit down. You must be awfully tired after your long journey.’’ She finally took the chair he offered her. “I’m not so very tired,” she said, slowly. “I got in about four, had a good bath and met my sister at the Savov for dinner. I’ve just come from there, as a matter of fact, ifou’d be interested to hear about my sister.” He wondered what was behind this curious, half-sly manner of hers. In one way she was making it quite easy for him, acting as though there had never been anything approaching intimacy between them. “The sister who called when I was at your flat that night?” he inquired. “Yes, I told you she was going abroad. So she did. But her husband died recently and she’s had to come back. He didn’t leave her anything, and unless the matter can be settled in another way, it’s likely to come into court. My sister used to be on the stage. She was known as Olive Gilder.” “Olive Gilder! ” An angry flame swept David's face. “You mean

the woman who ruined young Pelwyn?” “Yes. She ran a gambling-place. Any number of them, to be exact. Was Pelwyn a particular friend of yours?” “No, I never met him, but his father is the head of our firm, and a decent ; old bird if ever there was one. That i affair very nearly broke him up.” “I should think so,” Adela said • virtuously. “I have had very little : to do with Olive myself of late years. But something has happened, and l thought it best to see her. Then 1 felt I must come straight to you. My sister was Adrian Westmore’s second wife. It was she who ruined him, backed up by that precious scoundrel. Lionel Hurst.” David leaned forward and gave vent to a low whistle of astonisment. “Are you joking?” he demanded. “Far from it. Can you imagine what may happen? Olive has nothing to lose. She’ll go into the courts and drag Westmore’s name through the mud. Unless Hurst gives her

| what she wants. She’s got a. lot of things up her sleeve that will tell against him. He’s been paying her to stay abroad. He bought her flat and furniture, he covered up Wes> more’s trouble, and got himself made sole trustee of the old man’s estate. (To be Continued Tomorrow.)