The Mystery Road

Auckland Star, Volume LIX, Issue 261, 3 November 1928, Page 13 (Supplement)

The Mystery Road

By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

CHAPTER XXVI, Only a Child.

The world seemed a very good place to Lady Mary as, from the depths of her chair under the cedar tree on the folr lowing afternoon, she watched Christopher, conducted as far as the terrace by the butler, descend the steps lightly and move on across the lawn towards her. He had been away for a holi:lay earlier in the summer, and was still healthily tanned. His grey tweeds became him. He walked with the dignity and assurance of a man whose life is being worthily lived. It was a long way across the lawn, and the girl who waited for his coming had time for a crowd of pleasant thoughts as she watched the approach of the man on whom she had set her heart. Everything that he did and had done in life appealed to her. She even appreciated now the reticence which he had shown in their many conversations, the absence of any indications of more than ordinary interest in her. He had sentiment enough— that was proved by the tenderness'lor Myrtile to which he had confessed that night at Monte Carlo, a night which she had always remembered as one of the unhappiest of her life. She had long since been convinced, both by his manner and Myrtile's, that the tenderness, such as it had been, had become merged in a purely fraternal and kindly regard. Of his reticence towards herself she thought nothing. He was possessed, as she well knew, -of a very high sense of honour, and she had always felt that, however greatly she might have desired to hear his declaration, he would say nothing until he had passed definitely out of the somewhat miscellaneous category of rising young men into the position of one whose future is assured. To-day he was the youngest K.C., and a seat in Parliament was almost within his reach. She thought of her own fortune with a deep sense of pleasure. It was larger than he imagined, larger than anyone else except herself and her father knew. Christopher would be free to make the best of himself, free for all time from any shadow of financial worry. How well he looked, how strong and eager! She held out both her hands as he drew near, and her smile of welcome made her for a moment radiantly beautiful. "How delightful to see you, Christopher!" she exclaimed. "And what wonderful news. It's just what you wanted, isn't it, and just what we all wanted for you." He took her hands and stood smiling down at her. Her heart was beginning to beat more quickly. She hoped that he would suggest walking in the gardens "It is a wonderful stroke of fortune, isn't it?" he agreed. "It all came about through going down to help AndrewHodgson at the Darlington election. 1 knew I'd got on pretty well with the speech-making down there, but I never thought it would lead to this." He did not sit down, nor did he suggest the gardens. He had looked around for a moment, almost as though disappointed to find her alone. Still her heart did not misgive her. She thought him a little nervous, and she smiled tolerantly. "You were a dear to telegraph to me at once," she said. "I can't tell you how interested and nattered I was." "I wanted you all to know," he declared, looking around once more. "How is everyone?" "In excellent health, thank you," she answered. "Father is having his usual afternoon sleep. Gerald has been here but, as I dare say you know, he went away this morning. We must talk about him later, Christopher. I am rathei worried—but that can wait. Will you sit down, or would you like to see how wonderful the gardens are?" He looked at her a little apologetically, yet without the slightest idea of how great an apology was needed. "I wondered," he said, "if I could see Myrtile." "Myrtile?" Mary repeated. He'assented a little sheepishly, yet with a rather engaging smile. "I wanted to see her and tell her about it," he confided. "She won't understand just what it means, perhaps, but she's so much more of a woman now." His voice seemed to come from a long way off. It seemed all part of a horrible nightmare, something unreal, some black thought, the figment of a nocturnal fancy. Then she was conscious of his standing before her, waiting, expectant, with the eagerness of a lover in his eyes. "Myrtile went down to gather some roses," she told him. "You will find hei at the end of the pergola." He was gone almost before the words left her lips, gone with some sort of mumbled excuse, unconscious of the tragedy he had created, clumsily oblivious of the fierce struggle which had kept her calm and collected. She turned her head and watched him go, watched his long, eager footsteps, saw his tall figure stoop as he entered the pergola Her fingers tore at the sides of hei chair. She looked at the distance between her and the terrace steps. If only she could* escape! Her limbs for the time seemed powerless. She sat there with all the healthy colour drained from her cheeks, her fixed eyes seeing nothing but the ruin of her confident hopes. There were three old ladies in the family of Hinterleys—one of her father's sisters, the others a little more distantly related —prim beings, full of the weaknesses and prejudices evolved by their unlived lives. She remembered now how she had shrunk, even in her school days, from the thought of ever finding herself in a similar situation. But she was suddenly face to face with it now. She could see herself "rowing old, marching down the avenues of time, preserving in a certain measure perhaps her dignity, but growing a little more captious of the happiness of others. There was only one Christophei and he was there at the bottom of the pergola with Myrtile. Even in her bitterness she did not blame him for a moment. There were a hundred different ways in which she might have misunderstood him. She had made the foolish mistake of many ignorant yonnf women. She had mistaken companionship, *nd the desire for companionship on his part, for the subtler and rarei 1 <nft which she herself had been sc |[ready to offer.

Christopher, she remembered, hail even warned her, more than a year ago, at the villa in Monte Carlo, that night when they had paced the terrace together. She had refused to take him seriously, and lie had never once reverted to the subject. \\ had never once seemed to her, indeed, that he had almost avoided Myrtile during his visits to Hinterleys, and she had commended him for his discretion. Myrtile was sweet ajid full of charm, but what use could she be i< a wife to an ambitious man like Christopher? Hew she herself could h-'.ve helped with her sympathy, her so-'ial influence, her tact, to say nothing of her great fortune! It was amazing what fol'ies a man could commit for the sake of a fancy! She could call it nothing else. Presi;:n iy she rose calmly to her feet and walked towards the house. 'jm.ii it swallowed her up, the key was turned in the dcor of her room, the long minutes that passed were hei own. She never counted them then; she never dwelt on them afterwards. The period of her agony was, in fact, short enough. Her pride came to her rescue. When her maid tapped on the door she had already bathed her eyes, and there remained nothing but a little tired look about her mouth and a slight weariness of gait, to denote her suffering. She opened the door at once. "Mr. Bent is obliged to go back to town almost immediately, yoiir ladyship," the maid announced. "He has asked specially whether he could see you for a moment." "Tell Mr. Bent that I shall be down in five minutes," her mistress enjoined. The maid departed, and Mary turned once more anxiously to the mirror. This was a trial which she had scarcely expected. Her fingers passed over her face, anxious to smooth out its lines. Her lips moved, as though she were uttering a prayer. She was, indeed, appealing to herself, to the strength and pride of her young womanhood. When she entered the library where Christopher was waiting for her, she knew that she was free from all trace of disturbance. "Christopher, you don't mean that you are going to leave us at once?" sho protested. "And where is Myrtile? I expected to see you both together." "I left Myrtile where I found her," Christopher answered, a little harshly. "Will you keep my secret, please. Mary, and forget my visit?" __ "Forget your visit?" she repeated. wonderingly. "Myrtile does not care ' for me," Christopher explained, "not in the way I want her to. It is the same with her now as from that first moment. I thought it was a fancy of which she might have been cured. I find it is nothing of the sort." At that moment Mary hated herself, hated the joy which swelled up in her heart, hated the sudden. jrassionate rush of blood through all her veins, the sense of grotesque, immeasurable relief. She hated the lying words she spoke. "Oh, Christopher, T am so sorry!" she said. "I do hot understand, but I am very, very sorry." "Myrtile loves Gerald," he continued. •'She will love him all her days. She is one of those strange creatures who will never change, to whom love is just one final thing for good or evil. ' She loved Gerald when she stepped into the car and we carried her with us along the road around the end of which she had woven all her dreams. She cares for him so much that I am not sure whether, at the bottom of her pure heart, she does not hate me because I once kept them apart." She laid her hand upon his arm. That sense of sickening joy had gone. She was a woman again, feeling nothing but sorrow for the suffering of her man. "Christopher, dear," she begged, "Myrtile will see the truth in time. Gerald cares nothing for her, nothing for anybody except himself and his own pleasures. She will understand this presently. Bememhw, although she has grown so sensible, and so gracious in her attitude towards life, she is really only a child." "In one way she will always be a child," he answered, sadly. "Her love will last her time, whether Gerald ever returns it or not." "There is still your work," she went on, "great, wonderful work waiting for you. And your friends. Don't take this so hardly, Christopher." He looked down at her with a very forced smile. "Oh, I shall get over it," he assured her. "I am not the first man who has had to face this sort of thing. It i 3 odd, though, that it should have happened to me. Whatever thoughts I may have had in the past about marriage were so different." "Isn't it just possible, perhaps," she ventured, "that the other thoughts were the wisest?" "Wisdom has so little to do with life, really," he answered, drearily. "I should have planned it differently if I could. Well, I had to see you, Mary. You've been perfectly sweet, as I knew you would be. I want to get off without seeing a soul now, if I can. You won't mind ?" "Of course not! You wouldn't like me to speak to Myrtile?" "Absolutely useless," he replied. "She was Teally shocked when she knew why I had come. I believe it seems to her a trifle irreligious to discuss the possibility of her caring for anyone except Gerald. No, I'm not going to encourage any false hopes, Mary. I've had my answer, and there's an end of it. What I want to do is to get away." "That you can do and shall," she assented. "I did so want to hear about Leeds, but that must be another time. You won't keep away from us because of this, Christopher?" "Of course not," he promised, halfheartedly. 'Til write, if I may. There are heaps of things I want to tell you. You won't mind?" She smiled' and let him open the door, taking him by a devious way to the courtyard where his car was still standing. "There," she directed, -you can go out by the south drive, across the deer park and you won't meet a soul." ' He held her hand tightly for a moment at parting. blc6B y° u Mary!" he said. "You're a wonderful pal." "thank yon," she answered, simply. (To be continued daily.)