THE STORYTELLER

Taranaki Daily News, 25 September 1915, Page 9

THE STORYTELLER

THE ONE SHE CHOSE,

"And to my niece, Mrs. Amy Jennings,! t leave £3OOO, this to be held in trust: by my nephew, Laurence Finching, ac-' .cording to instructions I shall leave him. J To my housekeeper " I But Mrs. Amy Jennings was not think-. inj! of the housekeeper or the other serv. ] ants. Had she been listening to the will, read out she would have had to observe | outward decorum; but she had arrived late, and a copy of the will had been' posted to her with the usual lawyer's, fetter stating that this was her due, see- : ing that she was mentioned in it—mentioned ill it! She read it eagerly. 'lt -was more than she had expected. Nar-row-minded, cold-hearted Uncle George had never forgiven her unhappy marriage with Jack Jennings. The fact that mad. Jack Jennings turned out even worse! -'than was expected (that little Ronnie's' lameness, for instance, was due to his father's violence) had exasperated George Butterwortb. all the more against his niece. He was, in fact, a rather stupid nan, And the fact that his one prediction hail come true made him think the more of himself as one who should have been listened to. Mad Jack had been got rid of at last, and Amy kept herself and her three children modestly in West Kensington lpdging3 on what- she earned in accountancy; but in spite of her modern ways and her modern occupation, her uncle liad shown little faith in her. She would still help Jack on the sly, he considered; so he had helped her very little. But now he was dead, and had left her this five thousand. And the interest of it would supplement her poor earnings. Xow they would live better tlun before, and Ronnie, who showed talent for art, could have it cultivated, and boisterous Essie. would go to a good school. Then with a chill she remembered the .trusteeship. Her cousin, so i-rld and narrow, Hvinjrausterely in spite •a* a fair income, hi§Tsph«re the little world of Bible meetings and "spiritual" discussions. ■An awful world! No wonder' she had left it for mad Jack Jenciegs, with his free outlook on life and his 1 tales of adventure. And now this cousin, this representative of that narrow world, Was made her trustee. She understood when she called upon her lawyer, Mr. Meares, next day. He was just-ieaving the office, but had time to jfive her a copy of her uncle's letter to tier cousin.

She left with'it quickly; she was not! the woman to weep and lament and show j feminine incapacity to understand the j rigor of the law. So she told herself, | and pictured herself imploring the lawyer I '•'to get it upset." She was too proud,' too much the modern woman for that futility! So she assured herself. Masculine in her acquiescence, she left the office, and read the letter at her leisure. It was as she had vaguely suspected. Ho had left the money in trust because Amy "was inclined to vain and extravagant ideas." Laurence was to give her thr- money "m such a manner that she: could not indulge in such ideas," and '•'especially so that it should not get int» the hands of 'that particular scamp, Aiiiy's husband, Jack Jennings." Amj laughed. She. give if to Jack, who had almost killed his own child, whom shs now almost hated! It was too absurS. "Of course, I pledge myself never to do that," she volunteered when she saw her oni-sin next day. "And now, Laurence, 1 tell you what I want done with that i;i.r,ey. I Want to live better. I know if 1 do be good for poor Ronnie; he does so love pretty things; and it may save Frank going to a home later on;. it may arrest his delicacy. And then Essie—a good school is what she needs. The interest of the five thousand added to my own little income " slip made calculations at length. "If Prank or the others need to go to. a home and the doctor signs a certificate to that effect, I will advance money for that purpose," said Laurence slowly. She looked at him, her with vexation and rising shame. He was a stout, quiet-speaking man, lull of old ideals of man and woman, and the submission of the one to the other, though curiously enough this dealt more with blood than marital relationship. His knowledge of life—real life—was almost *il.

, "1 am not doubting you," he said, in answer to a vigorous protest; "I do'not believe you would be extravagant or send money to Jack. But you see I must simply act as if I did doubt you; otherwise why did he not leave the n.oney to you with just an injunction? 1 don't want to be hard, but—l must be faithful to my trust." That was his argument as the months passed, and he' was appealed to for this or that. She would never get the use of her uncle's money while he lived. He did not mean to be unkind, but his standard of life—especially for women—was low. He honestly thought that his couiui did not need a better home than the West Kensington flat. Winter in France, a larger establishment a furnished flat now and then in London—he Would hear of none of them. Amy wa 3 strong, and should still continue her! work. More than pay for their school \ bills and a yearly holiday to a seaside resort he would not do. If he »ave her' the full income how could he prove that I she did not waste it or send it to her husband, wherever he might be? If Uncle George had meant, etc. etc. _ Meanwhile the money was 'accumulating. If it was ever needed for a real emergency! But now a horror was growing upon her. Long before Laurence Fuelling's doctor would give a certificate her mother's intuition told her that Frank was doomed. Once, haggard-eyed and pale, her little tired boy beside her, she had gone wildly half-wav up a lawyer's stairs to pour her little savings before him, to pledge her earnings for years to come if he would but "make a case of it." But she got down in time, saved by reflection from that futility. Why, it would take all she had, and she might not win, and then there would be nothing in the future! So she went home again, and was almost glad when Frank became obviously ill, for now the doctor granted the certificate. Even then she had a time of anxiety, for at first her cousin seemed disinclined to let the whole family go to that southern French town to which Frank was ordered, and to which they could not afford to go without Uncle George's money. At length, however, he consented, a little worried; and then followed eighteen happy months, even though Frank was dying. He had been helped too late. . . . But the other children—it might at least help them. Then a great misfortune occurred. Jlore from bravado than any ill-will, mad Jack sought them out at Eponais; and on thai day, uneasy, thinking that he must come once for form's sake, Cousin ItaresM nude hii appearance

An hour or two later Amy Jennings, her boxes hatf-gacked 'Behind her, came to her husabna's lodgings. She had something In her tend which she showed —a ring-case containing a ring. "Cousin Laurence says he will not give me funds to stay here any longer. He says he takes my word that I have not helped you; but he has to act; otherwise my child will die—quicker—because of you. Do you see this ring—one of the old poison rings? You gave it to me on our honeymoon, and you put African poison into it that you had got when in that country. We laughed at the time. Both of us were in an impish mood. Later we tested the poison on a sick cat. It worked! And you told me there was just enough left to kill one human being-*a quick, undiscovered death. No one would ever guess. . . Now, leave me, Jack. Never come near me again, or I may choose to kill you." The years passed away drearily, bitterly in that bleak Kensington flat. Day fry day she went to her work, livening after evening, weary, embittered, she tried to entertain her children. There were only two now. Frank had died rapidly after an unexpectedly severe crossing when they left France. Years passed. She had resolved now never to think of her uncle's money. She tried to put it out of her mind. It must be as if it had never been.

When Ronald was old enough his cousin offered to pay his premiutn in a, business, but refused to give him anything for the artistic life for which the lame boy craved. That, he considered, would be extravagant. r She tried not to think of this, and ot 'Essie, who needed special care growing among rough and common surroundings; but sometimes as she noted her own greying hair and hardened face, she thought of what this addition to his income might have meant—the happy summer holidays they would have all enjoyed; the refinement she would Bare .known; the better friends she would have made. Laurence could not have comprehended this. "True friends love you for yourself alone," lie had said once. He could not understand. Neither could he understand when Essie, fifteen, and looking old for her years, broke away, and was beard of no more till news came of her in that asylum from whence, the mother hoped, she might never return. But on the day that that daughter's ignominy was known to her, Mrs. Jennings took the ring once more that her husband had given her. She looked at that email circle with its little square tablet, inside which lay the poison that wouldvcome out at a pressure. She fancied herself giving it as a present to her cousin Laurence. She pictured his slow, heavy smile. If she gave him the crime could never be traced to tier. Only her husband knew of its power, and he, if he still lived, could not give evidence against her. Then the trust would be over; or if not, if willed away to someone else, that other could not be harder than Laurence himself. She slipped the ring in its case into her pocketSuddenly, as she sat on her bed in her room, a woman early old, embittered, excitement like that of youth ran through her veins. She saw her life in one glimpse, as it were, all that she had missed through that money not being hers. She recollected instances that she had long forgotten. The fearfulness of her lost life came home to her like a knife. And with it mingled the cry of lame Bonnie only that day—Ronnie, dowered with that fatal love of beauty which all of us think we possess, but know nothing of in any fullness. "Oh, I can't bear this place, mother! I must live somewhere else, or I shall die." She arose; she flung on hat and jacket. Half-an-hour later she was at her cousin's house. He put down his parish magazine to greet her. She broke into speech; she urged, she pleaded. She must have her own money. What was he going to do with it—the trust? "I am going fo be married to Jane Hemmings—a good woman, who teaches in the Sunday school. I will the trust to her after we marry." Jane Hemmings, ttat prim, disapproving conventionalist. Why, she Would be harder than Laurence! Amy broke into speech again. Suddenly she saw his face flush. It had grown heavier and redder of late.

, "I am going to will it to Jane after we marry," he repeated. Then he fell down, breathing heavily, in an apoplectic fit.

And Amy for a long moment knelt beside him, his head on the carpet. The ring in its case was in her pocket—that ordinary dull-day costume, as she called it, that she had worn so long. But she would not need to place the ring on that twiching finger. She had only to kneel a minute longer, leaving that head still rolling on the floor, and suffocation would do her work for her. Many thoughts Tushed through her and she looked at the heavy purpling face. But she could not do it. The man was a tyrant, but he did not know it. She raised the head, called for help, and as she saw the purple flush fade knew that the danger for the present was over. An hour later she was away. She was back with Ronnie—Ronnie, who was in a low fever now, who declared he I wouldn't get well, whom the doctor sadly declared, perhaps couldn't get well. She was with him now.

And then a few days later, into the sadness of life came the sound of delivering feet and unlocking doors. The chains fell off; the sunlight streamed in. The attack had occurred again ; and this time Laurence Finching had not recovered. She sat by the side of her son's bed and thought over the news. There was still a little fear in her heart. He might have willed away the trust, tnougn he had spoken as if he had not. She was still not sure, not quite certain. But when four days had passed and the funeral was over, she made her way through the grey fog to the lawyer's office. Only once she had been up to it long ago. Would she get better news now? How often in the intervening years she had glanced up at it in passing, sometimes dully, sometimes forgetfully, sometimes bitterly—the emblem 01 that relentless law which never listens, never yields!

She passed up the stairs and found herself in the little inner room again. It was much the same, and he only a little older after all these years. "Mrs. Ah "looking at the card she had sent in, "cousin of the late Mr. Laurence Finching. Please sit down. There i 3 nothing in the will for you." "No, no! I never expected it." He looked a little surprised. "I have come about the trust—the I money Laurence held in trust for me," !she added.

"The trust? Why, what is that?" She explained rapidly, recalling it to hij memory. "Ah! I recollect now—the legacy left )>l Mr. G«orge Morton twelve—or U it

fourteen? —years ago." He was reaching for his tall, shining hat. "And yon never claimed it?" he asked casually. There was a queer pause. "How could I " she asked, staring. He brushed an imaginary speck from his hat. "You know I sometimes wondered if you would find out. You had only to claim it formally, and it was yours. You sec, the trusteeship was quite illegal. When conditions are mentioned in a letter and not in the will itself they don't count, and the money goes to the legatee unconditionally whenever she claims it."

"And you never told me?" in a whisper. Her eyes were bright. "Not my business, madam." The hat was* right now. "Mr. Finching didn't speak of it. and it wasn't my place *to tell you or him. You should have consulted a lawyer for yourself." "At least you have told me now," she said. Her fact was deadly pale, but her lips smiled. She held a little case out to him, showing a ring. "Do take it as a memento. It is not valuable."

"Couldnf think of it, madam. Ah, well ("from a grateful client,' he heard himself tell the story that evening), "I will wear it for awhile, anyway." Mrs. Jennings went down the stairs still smiling. She had chosen.