The Error of Her Ways

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20918, 25 September 1939, Page 5

The Error of Her Ways

(By FRANK BARRETT)

Commencing To-day Enthralling New Serial

CHAPTER I. THE KEY NOTE When the long looked-for appointment came at last, and Mr Thomas Clifford was requested to present himself within twenty-four hours at the British Embassy in Paris and receive his instructions, the young fellow barely had time to carry the good news to his family m the north, wind up affairs in London, and shake hands with a few friends before taking the night mail from Victoria. His last visit was to the Harrowgates, at Putney—his valise on the top of the cab, at his feet a dispatch box, of which he was just a little bit ashamed—it was so accusingly new. He was consciously intoxicated with the congratulations of friends, whose faces reflected his own exaggerated expectations, yet he looked forward with a feverish gulp of delight to the felicitations he was sure of receiving from the jolly old stock jobber and his pretty wife, and that merry little grig Sylvia; for they had constantly buoyed him up in the wearied days of hope deferred, with confident belief in the coming of this good time. Silently the cab pulled up at the detached house; as lightly Tom ran up to the open door. A visitor was just leaving. In reply to his question the maid said that Mr Harrowgate was at home, and let the way to the little drawing-room, but with such a subdued voice, and so hushed a step that he concluded she must have recently been getting a wigging. She seemed 'almost afraid to open the door, so slowly and softly she turned the handle. Close at her heels Tom, prepared for a sudden burst of joyful greeting, halted on» the threshhold in sudden dismay. Seated before the fire, Harrowgate bent forward, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands, his great burly shoulders shaking in a long cadence of sobs, ending in a choke and a sobbing sniff, while beside him stood Sylvia, the grig, one arm around his neck and her cheek pressed against the bald patch on her father’s head, she, too, crying, poor child! But silently. Her little womanly heart maybe was struggling to subdue its grief that she might nbt add to his. There was whisky on the table beside some scattered trinkets and photographs. Tom looked round for pretty Mrs Harrowgate. She was not there. Then he noticed that Sylvia’s frock was of crepe, stiff and new, and her pigtail tied with a black ribbon. The tale was learnt in one comprehensive glance. “ Mr Clifford, sir,” whimpered the maid. “ Come in, Tom,” whimpered the fat man, without lifting his head. “ You are too late, my boy, for the funeral. Buried her this afternoon —my poor dear darling Em-em-emy. Brompton Cemetery, Tom—beautiful position—best I could get. Oh, my God, why wasn’t I buried with her? But it won’t be long before I am— I can’t live without her. I can’t, I can’t.” He took his hands from his face, and laying them on his knees rocked backward and forward, shaking his head at the fire. Sylvia turning to Tom, and seeing tears in his eyes, threw her arms round his neck, and lifted her poor, tear-sod-den face to be kissed. Heartbroken Grief “ The best wife,” whimpered Harrowgate—“ the best friend I ever had, Tom. She made me what I am. I was only a clerk when she married me, and had but a couple of rooms then, where we lived as happy as two dickybirds in a card—and now look at this house—sixty-five pounds a year, and seven year’s lease, fiveunexpired. Fifteen years we’ve pulled together, Tom, through thick and thin, fifteen years ” he turned round, showing his face slobbered and puffed, almost beyond recognition. “ Fifteen years, Tom, and we never passed one angry word—never had one row. Oh, it’s all up with me—l feel it here—my heart’s breaking, Tom.” He clasped his enormous chest, and then seizing a photograph from the table he pressed it to his great mouth, mumbling incoherently between the kisses. In word and gesture his emotion was ludicrous, grotesque, yet most pathetic. Once more he turned to the fire, rocking himself and sobbing, and again Sylvia went to his side. She gently drew his great head upon her breast. “ Daddy—daddy dear! ” she murmured, “ I will be good—l will be so good! ” That picture stuck in Tom’s memory for seven years. Of course, Harrowgate did not die—as a matter of fact, finding solitude intolerable or the charms of Miss Sybil St. Cyr one too many for resistance, he married again within a year of his bereavement. The. latter fact did not greatly surprise Tom, and in no way

iffected his mental picture of little Sylvia. He saw her always saying ’rom the depths of her heart, “ I will | )e so good! ” and believing that noth- j ng could change that sweet disposiion, he prayed that it might be ;trengthened to her lasting happi- | less. Tom was certainly a lucky fellow, j Te got that appointment (vaguely ( iomprehended as something in the liplomatic service) when he was nost in need of it, and by the time le had grown heartily sick of his iccupation he came into a legacy vhich enabled him to send in his imnediate resignation. Those who lad given him a hearty farewell >even years ago, now welcomed his *eturn with still heartier congratuations. The news of his good forune had sped in advance, the sum if his legacy going up by tens of ;housands, as it spread from mouth ;o mouth. No greeting was more jffusive than that of Harrowgate—lone more honest. Thq big man was bigger than ever, and every;hing that was his was big—as big is it could be to accommodate an overflow of prosperity extending :rom his waistcoat to his business. Flis office was no longer shared with a friend in an attic, but occupied the whole of the ground floor, where a iozen clerks were constantly workng, under Throgmorton Street high iressure. At the back was his own >nug sanctum, where a friend was nore welcome than a client, and vhere the safe and bank-book were lot more in evidence than a case of champagne and a box of cigars. The laid patch on his head was more exlansive, and the odd light little :urls in the great red nape of his leek were now quite white. When. ?xcitement subsided, his head would sink a little lower in the bending shoulders, as if he was not unused ;o the weight of care. “ Yes, Tom,” he said, smacking his ips. “ I’ve been piling it up higher md higher every year. It’s wonierful. Don’t give me credit for it —it’s Mrs H.” Tom remembered low he had attributed his early prosperity to another Mrs H. “ Keeps ne up to it. You’ve no idea. I’ve ;ot to make money, my boy, for we ire spending lord knows how much, md a little bit over. Oh, she’s a wonderful woman—such wit, such 'epartee! You must come and see is as soon as ever you’ve had your ling in London. Won’t be content ill you’ve seen all the shows, and I lon’t blame you; wonderful lot of iretty women about,” said he, openng a drawer. Sylvia’s Stepmother “ There, what do you think of hat? ” he asked with a roguish winkle, putting some photographs lefore his visitor. They were all of the same very ;heatrical-looking young woman. Dne represented her in a picture hat, mother in evening dress, and in a ;hird she was looking archly over her shoulder, with the probable intenion of displaying a long vista of neck n a peculiarly cut corsage. “ What do you think of it, Tom, ;h? ” “ Well, I think you are wise to keep hem where Mrs Harrowgate is not ikely to see them.” Harrowgate burst into a peal of aughter that shook the glasses on ;he table. “ Why, that’s the best compliment she’s ever had! ” he cried. “ Bless fou, Tom, that is my wife! ” Tom had innocently conceived the second Mrs Harrowgate a matronly ivoman, chosen as a probable good nother to poor little Sylvia. This foung person looked as if she might lave been a music-hall favourite. “ There’s another of ’em. What lo you think of that? ” asked Harrowgate, offering another portrait. “Not the same lady, surely? ” “ Same lady! Why, no, you duffer; that’s Sylvia! ” Tom stared at the portrait in mute astonishment. “ Didn’t recognise her, eh? ” Tom shook his head. How should le recognise her? When he saw her Last she was all legs and wings and ayes—positively plain. Now she was quite beautiful. He had naturally expected to find her greatly alfered, and she couldn’t be prettier. ¥fet His heart sank as with the loss if some cherished illusion—he knew rot what for the moment. “ Improved awfully, ain’t she? ” Tom nodded acquiescence, still starring intently at the face. Then le gave it back with a sigh. He Liad found what was wanting—the look in the face of the heart-broken "hild, saying, “ I will be good, daddy; [ will be so good.” “ Well, you’ll come and see us next week, won’t you, Tom? ” “Yes; are you still living in Putney? ” “ Oh, lord no! King’s Gardens, Brighton, is the home—so convenient for business, you know. But we’re staying now at Chart Court, in Kent. Took it for the shoot, you know—fine old Elizabethan house. Seven hundred guineas for the season, my boy. Got a house full of visitors—reg’lar nobs—just your sort—you’re bound to like ’em.” Tom made a virtuous resolution to like them—if he could; and rose to go, with the promise that he would find his way to Chart on Monday next. “ That’s your sort. It will seem quite like old times to have you about us again.” His eyes dropped, and his head sank; for a moment the memory of those old times seemed to oppress him. Then, lifting his head suddenly, he said: “ By the-bye, Tom, how are you off for liquid assets? ” “ Oh, that’s all right,” Tom replied smiling, with the belief that the kind old friend wished to supply a possible want. “My money’s all in the Bank of England. I can draw what I need.” “ Now, I wonder ” —Harrowgate began scratching the curls in the nape of his neck with some embarrassment—“l was thinking—” “ What? ” “ Well, next Tuesday, you know, is account day—and it looks as if I might find myself in a tight comer for about five minutes.” “ If I can help you in any way,” Tom said eagerly. “ If you could let me have a trifle —say three or four thou, for a couple of days, it would be an awful relief.” “ With all my heart. I’ll bring the notes down with me on Monday. I have no cheque book yet awhile.” “ Notes will do better. I’ts awfully good of you—” “ Don’t say that. You forget how you helped me when I was out of luck. It’s my turn now.” (To be continued) j