"The Uttermost Farthing"

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 224, 21 September 1929, Page 14 (Supplement)

"The Uttermost Farthing"

By MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

LAURENCE VANDERLYN, an unpaid attache at tlie American Embassy in Paris, lias for seven years loved with selfless devotion MARGARET PARGETER, the neglected wife of TOM PARGETER, the well-known sportsman, who has established his great racing stable at Chant illy. One day Laurence buvs an old country house, and, when telling Margaret of his purchase, expresses the wish that she were going there with him. "Would you like me to come with you' I will if VOU like, Laurence, she replies, her hands trembling, her eyes brimming with tears. CHAPTER 111. And now Laurence Vanderlyn and Margaret Pargeter were speeding through the night, completely and physically alone as they had never been during the years of their long acquaintanceship; and, as he sat there, with the woman he had loved so long and so faithfully wholly in his power; there came over Vanderlyn a sense of fierce triumph and conquest. The train had not started to time. There had come a sound of eager talking on the platform, and Vanderlyn, filled •with a vague apprehension, had leaned out of the window and with some difficulty ascertained the cause of the delay. The guard in charge of the /train, the man, that is, whom he had fed so well in order to secure privacy, had strained his hand in lifting a weight, and another employee had had to take his place. But at last the few moments of waiting—to Vanderlyn they had seemed an hour —had come to an end. At last the train hegan to move, that slow and yet relentless movement which is one of the few things in our modern world which spell finality. To the man and the woman it was the starting of the train which indicated to them lioth that the die was indeed cast.

Vanderlyn looked at his companion. She was gazing lip at him with a strange ~ expression of gladness, of relief, on her ' face. The long years of restraint and measured coldness seemed to have van- -- ished, receded into nothingness. She held out her ringless hand and clasped his, and a moment later they £ were sitting hand in hand, like two ~ children, side by side. With a rather awkward movement he slipped on her finger a thin gold ring—his dead mother's wedding ring—but still she Z said nothing. Her head was turned away, and she was staring out of the window, as if fascinated by the flying ~ lights. He knew rather than saw that her eyes were shining, her cheeks pink with excitement; then she took off her hat, and he told himself that her fair -- hair gleaming against the grey-brown 0 furnishings of the railway carriage . looked like a golden aureole. Suddenly Laurence Vanderlyn pressed . the hand he was holding to his lips, £ dropped it, and then stood up. He pulled the blue silk shade over the electric 'Z. light globe which hung ill the centre of the carriage; glanced through one of £•'- the two tiny glazed apertures, giving a P- full .view of the next compartment; then he sat down.by her, and in the b half darkness gathered her into his arms. "Dear," he said, in a voice that •' sounded strange and muffled even to *himself, "do you remember the passage at Bonning'ton?" As he held her, she had been looking up into his face, but now, hearing his question, she i flushed deeply, ■ and her > head fell forward on his breast. Their minds, their hearts, were travelling back to the moment, to* the trifling episode, which had revealed to each the other's love. ' ... V It had happened ten years ago, at a time when Tom Pargeter, desiring to play tlio role of. country gentleman, had taken.. for awhile a ' certain historic •country house. There, he. and his young wife had' brought, together a great Christmas house party composed of the odd, ill-assorted social elements which gather at the call of the wealthy host who hag exchanged old friends for new acquaintances. Peggy's own people, oldfashioned country gentry, were regarded by Pargeter as hopelessly dowdy and "out of it," so jjone of them had been invited. With Laurence Vanderlyn alone had the young mistress of the house had arty link of mutual interests or sympathies; but of flirtation, as that ' protean word was understood by those about them, there had been none. Then, on Christmas Eve, had come the playing of childish games, though no children were present, for the two-year-old child of the host and hostess was safe in bed. It was in the chances of one of these games that Laurence Vanderlyn hatl for a moment caught Margaret Pargeter in his arms— He had released her almost at once, but not before" they had exchanged the long probing look which had told to each their own as well as the other's secret. Till that moment they had been strangers—from that moment they were lovers, but lover* allowing themselves none of love's license, and very soon Vanderlyn had taught himself to be content with all that Peggy's conscience "allowed her to think possible. She had never known—how could she have known?—what his acquiescence had cost him. Now and again, during - the long years, they had been compelled to discuss the abnormal relation which Peggy called their friendship; together they had trembled at the fragile basis on which what most human beings would have considered their meagre happiness "was founded. More than once she had touched him to the heart by asserting that she felt sure that , the inscrutable Providence in which she had retained an almost childish faith, could never be so cruel as to deprive her'of the only source of happiness, apart from her little son, which had come her way; and so, although their intimacy had become, closer, the links which bound them not only remained p but, as is the, way with such links, tended to become more platonic as tlie time went on. Even now as he sat there with the woman he loved wholly in his power lying in his arms with her face pressed to his breast, Variderlyn's mind was in a maze of doubt as to what was to be their relationship during the coming days. Even now lie was not sure as to what Peggy had meant when she had seemed to plead, more with herself than with him, for a short space of such happiness an during their long intimacy they had never enjoyed. .fl All his_ acquaintances, including his iM official chief, would have told you 'that |SI Laurence Vanderlyn was an accomII plished man of the world, and an acute

student of human nature, but now, tonight, he owned himself at fault. Only one thing was quite clear; he told himself that the thought oi again taking up the thread of what had been so unnatural an existence was hateful —impossible. Perhaps the woman felt the man's obscure moment of recoil; she gently withdrew herself from his arms. "I'm tired," she said, rather plaintively, "the train sways so, Laurence. I wonder if 1 could lie down " He heaped up the cushions, spread out the large rug, which he had purchased that day, and which formed their only lugjrage, for everything else, by her wish, had been sent on the day before. Very tenderly he wrapped the folds of the rug round her. Then he knelt by her side; and at once she put out he arms, and pulled his head down close to hers; a moment later her soft lips were laid against his cheek. He remembered, with a retrospective pang, the ache at his heart with which the sight of her caresses to her child had always filled him. "Peggy," he whispered, "tell me, my beloved," why are you being so good to me —now ?" She made no direct answer to the question. Instead, she moved away a little,'and raised herself on her elbow; her blue eyes, filled with a strange solemnity, rested on his moved face. "Listen," she said, "I want to tell you something, Laurence. I want you to know that I understand how—how angelic you have been to me all these years. Ever since we first knew one another, you have given me everything —everything in exchange for nothing." And as he shook his head, she continued, "Yes, for nothing! For a long time I tried to persuade myself that this was not so —I tried to believe that you were as contented as I had taught myself to be. I first realised what a hindrance"—she hesitated for a moment, and then said the two words —"our friendship—must have proved to you four years ago—when you might have gone to St. Petersburg." As Vanderlyn allowed an exclamation of surprise to escape him, she went on, "Yes, Laurence, you have never known that I knew of that chance —of that offer. Adele de Lera heard of it, and told m (*; she begged me then, oh, eo earnestly, to give you up —to let you

go." "It was no business of liers,' lie muttered, "I never thought for a moment of accepting " "But you ivould have done so if you. had never known me,, if we had not been friends?" She looked up at him, hoping, longing, for a quick word of denial. But Vanderlyn said no such word. Instead, he fell manlike into the trap she had perhaps unwittingly laid for liiiji. "If I had never known you?" he repeated, "why, Peggy—dearest—-my whole life would have.been different if I had never known you. Do you really : think that I should have been here iu Paris, doing what I am doing—or rather doing nothing—if we had never met?" The honest, unpremeditated answer made her wince, but she went on, as if she had not heard it —

"As you know, I did not take Adelc's advice, but I have never forgotten, Laurence, some of the things she Baid." A look which crossed his face caused her to redden, and add hastily, "She's not given to speaking of you —of us; indeed she's not! She never again alluded to the matter; but the other day when I was persuading lier —she required a good deal of persuasion, Laurence —to consent to my plan, I reminded her of all she had said four years ago." "And what was it that she did say four'years ago?" asked Vanderlyn with a touch of angry curiosity; "as Madame de Lera is a French woman, and a pious Catholic, I presume she tried to make, you believe that our friendship was wrong, and could lead to only one thing——" He stopped abruptly. "No," said Peggy, "she did not think then that our friendship would lead to—to this; she thought in some ways better of me than I deserve. But she did "tell me that I was taking a great responsibility on myself, and that if anything happened—for instance, if I died " Vanderlyn again made a restlees, almost a contemptuous, movement —"I should have been, the cause of your wasting the best years of your life; I should have broken and spoilt your career, and all —all for nothing." "Nothing ?" exclaimed Vanderlyn passionately. "Ah! Peggy, do not say that. You know, you must know, that our love—l will not call it friendship," he went on resolutely, "for this one week let no such false word be uttered between us—you must know, I say, that our love has been everything to me! Till I met you, my life was empty, miserable; since I met you it has been filled, satisfied, and that even if I have received what Madame de Lera dares to call—nothing!"

He spoke with a fervour, a conviction, which to the woman over whom he was now leaning brought exquisite solace. At last he was speaking as she had longed to hear him speak. "You don't .know," she whispered brokenly, "how happy you m*ke me by saying this to-night, Laurence. I have sometimes wondered lately if you cared for me as you used to care?" CHAPTER IV. Vanderlyn's dark face contracted with pain;: he was no Don Juan, learned in the- bvways of a woman's heart. Then, almost roughly, he caught her to him, and she, looking up, saw a strange glowino, look come over his face —a look which was, even to her, an all-sufficing answer, for it told of the baffled longing, of the abnegation, and, even now, of the restraint and selflessness, of the man who loved her. \ "Did you really think that, Peggy?" was all" he . said; then, more slowly, as the arms about her relaxed their hold, "Why, my dear, you've always been you are—my life." • A sudden sob, a cry. of joy broke from her. She sat up, and with a quick passionate movement flung herself on hie breast; slowly she raised her face to his:. "I love you," she whispered, "Laiirehce, I love you!" His lips trembled for a moment on her closed eyelida, then sought and found her soft, quivering mouth. But even then Vanderlyn's love was reverent, restrained in ite expression, yet none the less, perhaps the more, a binding sacrament.

At last, "Why did you subject us," he said, huskily, "to such an ordeal! What has made you give way—now ? How can you dream of going back, after a week, our old life?" But even as he ateked Sn«t arClll ? g qUGstiolls > lle laid her back gently on her improvised couch.

Woman-like ehe did not give him a direct response, then, quite suddenly, she yielded him the key to the mystery. "Because, Laurence, the last time I was in England, something happened which altered my outlook on life." She uttered the words with strange solemnity, but Vanderlyn's ears were holden; true, he heard her answer to his question, but the word conveyed little or nothing to him. " He was etill riding the whirlwind of his own poignant emotion; he was telling himself, with voiceless and yet most binding oaths, that never, never should the woman whose heart had just beaten against his heart, whose lips had just trembled beneath his lips, go back to act the part of even the nominal wife to Tom Pargeter. He would consent to any condition imposed by her, as long as,they could be together; surely even she would understand, if not now, then later, that there are certain moments which can never be obliterated or treated as if they have not been. ... It was with difficulty—with a feeling that he was falling from high heaven to earth—that he forced himself to listen to her next words. "As you know, I stayed, when in England, with Sophy Pargeter Again ehe looked up at him, as if hesitating what she should say. "Sophy Pargeter 1" he repeated the name mechanically, but with a sudden

wincing. Vanderlyn had always disliked, with a rather absurd, unreasoning dislike, Peggy's plain-featured rough-tongued sister-in-law. To him Sophy Pargeter I had ever been a grotesque example of the deep—ithey almost appear racialdifferences which may, and so often do, exist between different members of a family whose material prosperity is due to successful commerce. The vast inherited wealth which had made of Torn Pargeter a selfish, pleasureloving unmoral human being, had transformed his sister Sop\y a woman oppressed by the belief that it was hei duty to spend the greater part of her considerable income in what she believed to be good works. She regarded with grim disapproval her brother's way of fife, and she condemned even his innocent pleasures; she had, however, always been fond of Peggy. Laurence Vanderlyn, himself the outcome and product of an old Puritan New England and Dutch stock, was well aware of the horror and amazement with which Miss Pargeter would regard Peggy's present action. "Well, Laurence, the day that I arrived there, I mean at Sophy's house, I felt very ill. I suppose the journey had tired me, for I fainted " Again she hesitated, as if 'not knowing how to frame her next sentence.

"Sopliy was horribly frightened. .She would send for her doctor, and though he said there was nothing .much the matter with me, he insisted that I ought to see another man—a specialist." Peggy looked up with an anxious expression in her blue eyes—but again Vanderlyn's ears and eyes were holden. He habitually felt for the medical profession the unreasoning dislike, almost the ' contempt, your perfectly, healthy human being, living in an ailing world, often —in fact almost always —does feel for.those who play the role of the old augurs in our modern life. Mrs. Pargeter had never been a strong woman; she was often ill, often in the doctor's hands. So it was that Vanderlyn did not realise the deep import of her next words "Sopliy went with me to London —she was really very kind about it all, and you would have liked her better, Laurence, if yOu had seen her that day. The specialist did all the usual things, then he told me to go on much as I had been doing, and to avoid any sudden shock or excitement —in fact, he said almost exactly what that dear old French doctor said to me a year ago—" She waited a moment: "Then, Laurence, the next day, when Sophy thought I had got over the journey to London," Peggy smiled at him, a little whimsical smile, "she told me that she thought I ought to know —it was her duty to tell me—that I had heart disease, and that, though 'I should probably live a long time, it was possible I might die at any moment —" A sudden wrath filled the dark, sensitive face of the man bending over her. "What nonsense!" he exclaimed with angry decision. "What will the doctors say next, I wonder! I wish to God you would make up your mind, Peggy, once and for all, never to see a doctor again! I beg of you, if only for my sake, to promise me that you will not go again to any doctor till I give you permission to do so. You don't know what I went through five years ago when one of those charlatans declared that lie would not answer for the consequences if you didn't winter South, and—and Tom would not let you go!" He paused, and then added more gently, "And yet nothing happened—you were none the worse for spending that winter in cold Leicestershire!" "Yes, that's true," she answered submissively. "I will make you the promise you ask, Laurence. I daresay I have been foolish in going so often to doctors; I don't know that they have ever done me much good." His eyes, having now become quite accustomed to the dim light, suddenly seemed to see in her face a slight change; a look of fatigue and depression had crept over her mouth. He told himself with a pang that after all she was a delicate, fragile human being—or was it the blue shade which threw a strange pallor on the face he was scrutinising with such deep, wistful tenderness ? He bent over her and tucked the rug round her feet.

"Turn round and try to go to sleep," he whispered. "It's a long, long journey by this train. I'll wake you in good time before we get to Dorgival." She turned, as he told her, obediently, and then, acting on a sudden impulse, she pulled him down once more to her, and kissed him as a child might have done. "Good night." he said, "good night, my love—'enchanting, noble little Peggy!'" A smile lit up her face radiantly. It was a long, long time since Yanderlyn had last uttered the charming lines first quoted by him very early in their acquaintance, when he had seen her among her own people, one of a band of joyous English boys and girls celebrating a family festival—the golden wedding of her grandparents. Peggy had been delicately, deliciously kind to shy, proud American youth, whom an introduction from valued friends had suddenly made free of an English family clan. ' That had been a year before her marriage to Tom Pargeter, the inheritor of patent dye process which had made him master of one of those fantastic fortunes which impress the imagination of even the unimaginative. That the young millionaire should deign to trow the matrimonial handkerchief at their little Peggy , had seemed to her family a piece of magic good fortune. She could bring him good old blood, and certain great social connections, in exchange for limitless Avealth; it had been regarded as an ideal marriage.

More tlian four years went by before Vanderlyn again saw Peggy, and then he had found her changed—transformed from a merry, light-hearted girl into a pensive, reserved woman. During the interval he had often thought of her ate one thinks of a delightful playfellow, but lie only came to love her after their second meeting —when he had seen, at first with honest dismay, and then with shame-faced gladness, how utterly illmated she and Tom Pargeter were the one to the other. Vanderlyn made his way over to the other side of the railway carriage; there he sat down, and, crossing his arms- on his breast, after a very few moments, he fell into a deep dreamless sleep. (To be continued Saturday next.)