His Mother's Ring

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXI, Issue 3168, 22 June 1931, Page 5

His Mother's Ring

THE ROMANTIC OF A JOURNEY THROUGH THE SNOW.

"But," George demanded reasonably, rt if I forgot to bring it, how can I give it to you?" Miss Drayne made a gesture that In one less surely poised might have been mistaken for exasperation. "I may, of course, be mistaken," she pointed out in a strained voice, "but J was under the impression you gave me a definite promise to have the ring re-set so that I might wear it to-night." She made another of those small but eloquent gestures, and in the fine pallor of her cheeks was the faintest touch 01 pink. After all, if he was too dense to understand, how could she be expected to convey that it was only for the purpose of receiving the token of their engagement she had brought him to the conservatory at all? "I have had it re-set," George protested. "By Tapley's, of Bond-street, as a matter of fact. It came home three days ago, and I put it in the safe —jnst waiting for to-night.'" Miss Drayne raised beautiful eyebrows.

"And then?" she Inquired, which, spoken with the correct intonation, may be classified with "Oh?" "Indeed?" and "Well?" as among the pithlest ejaculations In our language. It made George feel all feet and futility.

"And then —I came away and forgot it," he admitted. "You see. after the other servants had gone, Dacre, my man, was in a frantic hurry to catch the only train north. Decent about it, of course* but It was obvious the poor chap was all of a doo-dah, wondering if he'd be able to get home for Easter. So I hurried up all I knew, and in the confusion the ring slipped my memory. A thing," George conceded handsomely, "I wouldn't have had happen for the world." He heard the tap or her shoe on the tessellated pavement. It came to him rather dismally that even in the few days of their engagement it was a pound that had come to have a certain familiarity. "It is unfortunate," Miss Drayne continued quietly, "that your consideration for your staff does not appear to extend to your other—and presumably more immediate —associations." This time it was George who made a gesture. Really Sylvia was making rather a fuss about something that, disappointing as, of course, it was. wasn't exactly a matter of life and death. If she only realised, it had taken quite a lot of thinking before he'd agreed to have his mother's ring re-set at all. Somehow i . . "Well, to-morrow is also a day," ho reminded her. "And what better day for the purpose than Good Friday, either?" He brightened. "If the weather's all hotsy-totsy, what's the matter with you coming with me to fetch it?" Then he, too, colored a little: with Sylvia, somehow, one never quite let oneself go. "As a matter of fact, 1 think I'd rather like to give you my mother's ring in the house she came to after her own marriage, and where I was born," he added, hoping deeper ately she'd understand. Her glance, that was very cool and direct, did not encourage that hope. "Old I understand you to say the house is empty?" she inquired, and now her excess of color was definite. He nodded. "Yes," he said, wonderlDgljr; *Tve given the whole staff a holiday." "And you expect me to accompany you—alone—to an empty house?" she questioned, and met his look of astonishment coldly. "For the love of Pete, why not?" George exclaimed, and again she raised her eyebrows. "Because," she said, "I happen to have some slight regard for my reputation."

George swallowed something that wasn't there.

"My dear girl," he remarked quietly, "if yeu don't feel able to trust yourself with me—even in an empty house —weren't you taking rather a risk in promising to marry me?" She stuck to her point—as always she did.

"It is less a question of trust," she said coldly, "than some slight consideration for the conventions." Remembering the restrictions of her upbringing, George tried to keep his temper. "Moses* Boots!" he exclaimed. "Don't you know how long it is since Mrs. Grundy handed in her dinnerpalir She made it evident that she was not impressed. "If by Mrs. Grundy," she said, "you mean the old safeguards of decency, and by 'handing in the dinner-pail, yon mean 'died,' then the sooner she is resurrected the better for society in general." George grinned. "Not when you remember what they found in the dinner-pail!" he said. She eyed him speculatively. "A charming boy, of course, but with such unconventional ideas! Really, my dear, when you are married, you must point 0ut..." This from her mother a few days previously. Then something Sylvia saw in his eyes decided her to humor him. If she wasn't careful ha might even be "din^cult.'• "What was It they found?" she asked.

"A sample of the lady's staple diet," George said. "A bottle of very sour vinegar and a small tapioca pudding." Tap! Tap! Sylvia's foot on the pavement again. "That la less a simile than an absurdity." she said dampeningly, and then played her trump card. "And so far as fetching my ring from Fleer Lodge to-morrow, apparently

your promise to accompany me to church has ahio escaped your memory! M As always, she was perfectly right. In the hard thinking he'd done in the past few days—ever since the night she accepted him, as a matter of fact —he'd never given that other and minor .engagement a thought. And then he said that which all along she had intended he should say. There was to be a formal sit-down supper at the fancy dress ball at Hightrees, and in order to drive home to that lnfuriatingly hesitant gentleman, Mr. Cyril Montgomerie, exactly what that tardiness had cost him, she had looked forward with enthusiasm to wearing that lovely old ring when —as she had been careful to arrange with her mother —he occupied her righthand place at table. "Then," George cried desperately, "rather than disappoint you I'll drive over and fetch the ring now. What'? more," he added grimly, "I'll g:» alone."

She glanced through the conservatory window at the snow-shrouded garden.

"Oh, George! But it's such a dread ful night!" she exclaimed. She was perfectly right It was a dreadful night. More than a foot of snow and still coming down.

"I suppose you could be back by twelve?" she said, looking up at him. And there, when all was arranged so amiably and satisfactorily, in his eyes was the little light that once or twice she'd seen there before. Disturbing rather . . . And his chin was thrust forward a mite farther than usual.

"I suppose you will be back by twelve," she slightly amended, resolutely ignoring the signs. After all. one must begin as one means to go

en ~ . . George nodded. "Of course," he said. "I mean to say, if the worst comes to the worst and all the snow-ploughs are engaged, there's always the robins." "How do you mean—robins?" she questioned. "To cover me with leaves," George explained. Sylvia's fine eyes narrowed. "I'm afraid," she said slowly, "you're going to be rather horrid."

He turned to leave her: "And I'm afraid," he said with m shivering glance at the night outside. "I'm going to be rather cold."

She followed him out of the conservatory and into the wide hall. And as he struggled into his coat she gave a little light laugh: "It's hardly believable," she said, "but even now you've forgotten to take off that dreadful mask." Though fo* the fancy ball she had urged upon him to represent "The Laughing Cavalier," upon the characteristically inadequate grounds that the hilarity would be contagious, he had chosen to come as Raffles." "Still less believable is it," George said disagreeably, winding a heavy woollen scarf about his neck, "that ' can't untie the blinkin' knots." She made a movement as if to untie them for him. And somehow he didn't want her to untie them for him.

"Don't bother, really," he said, and she looked at him disapprovingly. "But if anyone saw you," she protested. "It wouldn't be the first time I've been mistaken for Ronald Colman," George said modestly.

As his car pounded along the road George could have wished the weather a little less seasonable. Romantic, of course; speaking generally, complete with snow covering, the earth in a blanket of virgin white and all that sort of thing. The trouble to-night was that the Spirit of Yule was rather overdoing it; the blanket was a little too thick to be comfortable. What was more, it looked uncommonly as though, before the night was through, it was go ing to be thicker. Snow was coming down with the unhurried persistence that means business, each flake the size of a shilling Already his wheels were breaking trail through a good six inches of snow that, in the last hour, had become superimposed upon a foundation churned into nigh, deep ruts by previous traffic There were unsheltered parts where in the high wind that now, fortunately had dropped, the snow had drifted to a depth of a good two feet Fortunately his car was powerfully engined and with unusually high clearance; one of those baby two-seaters, he thought, would have had a pretty bad time of it. Churning along, he told himself that in persuading Sylvia Drayne to marry him he was an extremely lucky chap. A simply beautiful girl—tall and stately and finely-featured. And if—once — he had thought his ideal was something not quite so—so —statuesque, and with not quite such a rigid adherence to rules and regulations, and what would people think and all that

Well, there was no doubt about it, Deer Lodge needed a mistress; there'd been times lately when in the grim hours of the early morning he'd awakened to realise that if anything happened to him the place that had housed and been loved by a baker's dozen of Walsingfords would pass to strangers ....

He'd simply hate that . . . And it would be perfectly topping to have kiddles —sliding down the banisters ana rushing to meet you, and dashing into your room in the morning and rolling on the eiderdown and shrieking with laughter when you tickled their tummies . . . He almost swerved from the road at the sudden thought, that, in reference to those dream-children of his, Sylvia just hadn't come into the picture. Always before —some time ago—when his thoughts had taken that particular turn, the children bad been only.

as it were, a corollary to their mother—the carrying of an idea to its logical conclusion.

Rather dismally his heart, that a moment ago had be*en beating high, subsided. Somehow, with Sylvia as mistress of Deer Lodge, he couldn't see the kiddies sliding down the banisters or rolling on the coverlets. Clean as new pins they'd be —in charge of a frosty-faced nurse in a starched uniform —with him allowed to pay them state visits only at specified times. And when at last he let himself into the house, and having passed into the study went to open the safe, he found he'd left the key in the pocket of his day clothes! He stood for a moment saying several things quickly. What sort of a fool would he look if he. had to go back without the ring he'd come especially to fetch? He could just imagine what Sylvia 'd think—and what she would say. There was only one thing for it; he'd have to force the blinkin" lock. It wasn't much of a safe, anyway; just a small one into which he'd placed it because, happening to be in the study when the ring arrived, it was nearest to hand.

After he had garaged the car he colIt cted chisels and hammers and levers and things; and because the electric light plant wasn't working lighted a candle and parked it on the floor beside him. And in his complete concentration on the work in hand the rest of the world was blotted out and time ceased to be. Until, that is, in a tiny bitten-ofl cry, someone behind him said: "Oh!" Hammer in hand and surprise and annoyance upon what could be seen of the face, George swung round on his heels. Then he, too, said "Oh!" And stared. "I say, how did you get here?" he said, and stared and stared. Then, for she had gone suddenly pale, and shrank away from him: "I say, what's the matter?" he said in consternation, and took a quick step forward. "Keep back!" she cried, and pointed a small automatic pistol. His heart beating more rapidly than ever he remembered it to have done. George kept back. "Won't you sit down?" he said hospitably. "And, incidentally, close the window," he added shivering. She looked at him scornfully. "And turn my back to you!" she said. "Not likely!" She shivered again. From the cheeky little hat that crowned her coppery head to the stout little brogues on her feet, her rather diminutive person was enveloped in a thick fleece motoring coat, upon which now the snowflakes were beginning to melt. Even in the uncertain light of the candle that, in rising, he had lifted to the writingtable between them, he could see how the keen air bad stung her cheeks to a vivid glowing pink, and that her eyes, so intensely blue, searched his face with, in their depths, not so much fear as a kind of puzzled concentration.

"It's all right for you," he grumbled. "In that coat you're just a cocoon. But ['m wearing only a dinner-jacket with, of course 1 , the usual accompaniments." Still covering him with that absurd revolver, she backed slowly to the window, and with her free hand groped backward until her fingers encountered the edge of the lower frame. With the catch, that was a simple one, she had no difficulty. "Thank you so much." George said comfortably. "Here, what're you doing?" For she had advanced to the desk upon which was the telephone, and tiad lifted the receiver.

"Telephoning for the police," she said firmly. "What does one usually do with a burglar?"

He seated himself on the chair that faced hers. "Think of my wife Agnes waiting, tense and breathless, for my return—of our innocent curly-headed child. Will yours be the hand to bring the film of despair to the eyes ot my poor Bertha . . ." "You called her Agnes the first time," she interrupted. "Agnes Bertha Sikes," George said firmly, "nee Jellaby. Our child's name is Evangeline Hepsiba, after her Aunt Gertrude."

She hesitated, but as she replaced the receiver the blue eyes were steady and the red lips scornful. "Suppose,' she said quietly, "you drop all that cheap bravado —it doesn't impress me—and tell me—truthfully, if possible your circumstances. Of course I realise that at some time you've been a gentleman," she added. "Thank you," George murmured gratefully. "Also, and incidentally, take off that silly mask," she cried irritably. George started. "I don't quite want to do that, if you don't mind," he said quickly. Immediately her hand went to the telephone. "Listen to me," she said, and her voice was" as resolute as the hand that held the pistol. "Either you remove your mask or I summon the police at Blmhurst . . ."

He looked into her eyes; saw that she meant what she said. "I can't get the blinkin' knots undone," he complained. "Then cut the string," she ordered implacably. He sighed: his hand went to his v.aistcoat pocket "Just as you say," he said resignedly. But as his fingers, clutching a penknife, went to the back of his head, his eyes were intently upon hers. And at that moment there was a thundering peal at the hall bell. He saw her eyes open wide with alarm. For a moment she sat motionless. Then she jerked to her feet, tiptoed swiftly to the window and peered out on to the terrace. When she. turned her face was working.

"Three people—outside in the porch," she whispered tensely. "You can't get that way—you'd be caught for certain." She crossed the floor, gathered into her arms the hammers and chisels with which the carpet was strewn—thrust them Incontinently behind the safe.

A second ring; loud, peremptory, long drawn-out. "Get that mask off," she instructed hurriedly, "and make for the back way." "What about you?" he said quietly, and she made a quick gesture. "I'll be all right; there are plenty of people in the neighborhood who know me," she replied. "I'm on my way to Raywell Hall now." "Complete with revolver?" he inquired. "Fortunately," she agreed. "Besides, it's a lonely road from London." There was renewed and more urgent clamor at the bell.

"Perhaps if we keep quiet they'll go away," whispered George, knowing perfectly well they wouldn't. "What made you come here?" She said, hurriedly. "Snow. My car stopped dead immediately outside the lodge gates. I hoped the people of the house would let me use the telephone." Adding, as the clamor broke out again: "It was an electric bell I used." George nodded.

"The one tbat rings in the servants' quarters," he explained. "That's why r didn't hear you. The handle of the old one—that those people are swinglog on now—hangs by the side of the door, and if you don't know it's there She looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"How do you know all this?" she asked, and he smiled modestly.

"Why, you know how carefully we crooks reconnoitre a position," he said, pen-knife poised. \ Clanglo, dangle, clang! pealed the bell.

"Go!" she whi&pered desperately. "Then I'll answer the bell and explain tbat. not finding anyone here, I climb ed through the window for shelter." Turning aside, he cut the strings of the mask and, head bent low, threw it on the desk.

Then he % looked up—full into her eyes.

"No, Alys, I'll answer the bell," he said.

Immediately he opened the door they swept past him and into the study—all three of them. Within the room the elder lady, a massive and imposing figure in her long fur cloak, piled white hair, and diamond ear-drops, threw out a substantial arm towards the small figure who, pale-faced and strangely uncertain, sat back in the big study chair. "And what," demanded Mrs. Drayne ominously, "is the meaning of this?" The man, a pink and chubby gentleman with a pursed disapproving mouth and high bald head, said: "Extr'ornary—extr'or'nary!" and looked at George very fiercely indeed. "Good gracious!" cried Sylvia upon a high note of indignation, "if it isn't Alys Hammersley!" "How —how do you do, Sylvia?" murmured Miss Hammersley, rising "And what is the meaning of this?" repeated Mrs. Drayne. A one-idea'd lady, George thought. "And you told me," said Sylvia very elowly, addressing herself to George before he had time to reply to her mother, "not once, but several times, that you'd neither seen nor heard from Alys since you said good-bye at Harrogate eighteen months ago." "Huh!" said Mr. Cecil Montgomerie, broadcasting scepticism. "And now I understand," Sylvia sup plemented meaningly, "why you were sc anxious to return here to-night King indeed!" "Pretty obvious, what?" murmured Mr. Cyril Montgomerie, but didn't say what was.

"We waited, and waited, and waited" —Mrs. Drayne speaking—"before Sylvia, almost beside herself with anxiety in case you'd met with an accident, insisted upon setting out to find you. And as, of course, it was impossible for me to allow her to meet you, uncliaperoned, in your own house, I was forced to accompany her." In a tone of bewilderment, a small voice said: "His house?" "And this?" George inquired, indicating Mr. Cecil Montgomerie. "Was he, also, obliged to accompany her?"

Mrs. Drayne inclined her head. "Mr. Montgomerie was so kind/' she agreed. '" 'S'pleasure," Mr. Montgomerie murmured, gratified. "I suppose it's useless telling you 1 forgot the safe key and have been trying to force the door," George said sceptically to Mrs. Drayne. "Not that it matters," he added, looking at Miss Bammeraley. "With most expert—and willingassistance, I'm sure," Sylvia drawled sweetly. "One of those lapses of memory that turn out so fortunately!" "I told you what the fellow was," Mr. Cyril Montgomerie reminded her. With the slow sweeping movement of a locomotive on a turntable, Mrs. Drayne swung round on him. "And quite obviously, my dear Cyril, your opinion was justified," she said. "Mr. Walsingford's omission to bring the ring was, of course, merely an excuse to enable him to keep his—er—assignation here." The turntable swung back to its original position. "Come, Sylvia!" Obediently, her face set and hard. Sylvia ture«d to follow in the galleonlike wake tit her mother. But at the door she paused. "Not having been eo fortunate as to receive the one concern'.as which you were so effusive—and illusive—in your promises, I regret being unable to return your ring," she said . . , and,

with a quick change of expression, glanced at Mr. Mohtgomerie. "Ready, Cyril?" "I'll see yon out," said George.

"And that," George remarked on his return to the study, "is that!" Small foot on the fender, head bent low:

"You were engaged to Sylvia, I gather?" Miss Hammersley said, and raising her head, searched hiß face. "Yea," said George, searching hers. "Why?" asked Miss Hammersley. George hesitated. It was a difficult question to answer—without going into things. "When I was called away from Harrogate for that hurry-up call to New York, why didn't you write to me as you promised?" he demanded, and his voice was cold.

"Because I lost your address," responded Miss Hammersley promptly "Why didn't you write to me?" "Because the moment we landed I was taken to hospital with typhoid," George returned at speed. "It was three months before I could write a line, and, as no letters from yon had been forwarded." "Oh!" said Miss Hammersley. "Oh!" And thought hard. "Do you—did you—love Sylvia?" she said very quietly. Shame-faced, but emphatic, George shook his head.

"And she didn't me, either," he said ungrammatically. "No, I could see that," agreed Miss Hammersley softly, and thought again. "Only—why did you get engaged?"

George, too, did some thinking. "Honestly, Alys, dear, I don't know," he said. "I suppose I thought it just didn't matter."

Miss Hammersley rose . . . "Do you happen to know the Raywells?" she inquired casually. George looked at her anxiously. "Bill Raywell happens to be my greatest pal," he said. "As a matter of fact, he asked me to stay there over the holidays, only I was booked with Sylvia's people." A small white forefinger between small white teeth. Miss Hammersley gazed pensively at the telephone. "Do you mind?" she inquired, and George sprang to it "My dear," he said, "of course not. Shall I get the book? It's in the but ler"s pantry or somewhere." "Yes. get the book," said Miss Ham* mersley.

But when, after five minutes' search, he returned with it, she was replacing the receiver.

"Bill Raywell'B coming over for us in the Rolls," she said, fighting down a rising color. "Us?" George said dazedly, and for a moment thought the sudden peal of bells, clear-cut and Infinitely sweet, sounded not across the snow from Elmhurst Church, but from his own heart. "Us?" he repeated. Forefinger still between her lips. Miss Hammersley's very blue eyes, meeting his, grew suddenly misty. "Yes," she said. "Us. He's bringing a drill with him, too. A large one. », There were three paces between them, and George took one of them. "How d'ye mean, a drill?" he demanded mystified. "To open the safe, of course. How else are—we —to get at tbat ring?' Miss Hammersley replied. There was only one' pace between them now.

"You promised it to me anyway—at Harrogate," she added. And now there was no space between them at all. ,

AN OUT-OF-OATE PIECE OF FURNITURE.

There must be hundreds upon hundreds of derelict wash-stands in the world, which are dumped in an attic or lumber room and left to collect dust, yet there are a variety of ways in which the now out-of-date washstand can be used. An acquaintance of mine has a marble-topped washstand in her kitchen. The back has been removed, but the marble top is excellent for use when cooking is in progress; it can be cleansed so thoroughly, and, of course, the marble is excellent for making pastry oh. The capacious cupboards underneath are invaluable for keeping in utensils of all kinds and the numerous collection of odds and ends which find their way into everyone's kitchen. Another way Is to remove the marble slab and fix on the side of a wash-basin in the bathroom or kitchen. It makes an excellent shelf and one that is also easy to clean. If the washstand is in good condition, but is no longer required for its original purpose, the marble top can be substituted by a wooden one, and the wash stand thus converted into a neat dressing table if a mirror is placed on it, or on the wall behind it, and the woods of both mirror and stand stained and painted to the same color. The young wife was heart-broken. "What's the matter?" asked a friend. "Oh, my husband is so absentminded. After breakfast he left a tip on the table, and when I handed him his hat he gave me another tip." "Well, that's nothing to worry about. Just force of habit." "That's what worries me. He kissed me when I gave him his Overcoat." The manager of a small touring com pany, who played a farce in the big room of a village inn, mentioned to the landlord the quietness of the crowd, which didn't even smile. "Aye," chuckled the landlord. "I told 'em I'd chuck out the first man that made a sound. I didn't want good ' actors like you laughed at"