The Money Maid
By WINIFRED CARTER,
Author of. the successful novel, “Lass o’ Laughter,” “The Marriage Tangle,” and many other serial stories.
CHAPTER XXIII. The tongues of society wagged over the nine days excitement Lord Allertcn’s death produced. Shoaila .looking oiteous in the extreme, in her widow’s weeds, got many condolences, and much sympathy. , No one knew how the. rumour had started, that Jim had an. interest in Lard Allerton’s death. How do . these tilings start? The lifting of an eyelid at mention of a name —a meaning si'enye— a 100k —a whisper. “He was there that night—just before. He was engaged to Lady Ailerton once—she jilted lxim!” scandal said. Jim buried in his own woes, did not notice when at first old friends hurried past, and familiars ignored him. At the- time the scandal had but- started.. When it was discovered Joan had j(. c t him, it was fanned into a flaming fire. Whispers became louder —they reached Jim’s ears. • ~. There was nothing definite, only the furtive looks, and avoidance of him, which was like molten lead poured into an aching wound. Young a<j Jim was, new lines were graven on hisi face during that bitter time. The world was. very cruel —Joan was cruel too, for he had hoard no word of her, did not know where, she was. Yet if ever he needed her, he did so now! Had lie known where she was, however, Jim’s pride would, have orevented him from asking her to return to him now. . . . Fortunate for her to have got away before it haprenod. ■ vtJncle Stephen, wild with rage, yet impotent ta do anything, tried to comfort Jim, in vain. The great heart of Jim Doyle went very near to breaking in those days; scandal can be so brutal. The ball grew to such an amaaing size. He felt hunted. He hated to go out into the street. , ,
And .she did, the words bubbling out belter skelter. Then she got up and hurried into the little cottjige to get the diary to show it t-o him. He read it, smiled at the naive confession of her Jove.
“Poor Joan. Yes, you’ve suffered, 1 can see that, but Jim has suffered a million, times more.’ “I think Jim was very wrong,” said Joan tremulously, “to marry me because of that.” “But he didn’t!” said Uncle Stephen quickly. “Jim is no liar., He loves you. He’s told me so many times Why are you so difficult to convince?” “Would any man in his senses choos e me when he might have Sheila ” whispered Joan, her face clouded. “Well, you’ve not so much common sense as I gave you credit for. Jim chose you when he could have had that other little minx. Give him credit for seeing a little below the surface. Jim’s not a fool, my dear, though you seem to take him for one.”
“You’re very hard, Uncle Stephen!” said Joan, her lips quivering. “Well, I’m ready to go back now to Jim and tell him everything. I’m glad I came away now. I was seeing crookedly — now I’ve got clear vision again. Why didn’t you wire me to return instead pf coming?” She laid her soft sweet face on his hand. “I love having you all the same.” “I suppose you’v e not seen any papers here?” lie> said uneasily. “No,” said Joan. “I tried to keep away from the world, and get myself right. It’s hateful being as I’ve been. I’ve been ashamed of my feelings, Uncles Stephen, jealous and hard and bitter—but it’s gone mow.” “Well, you will have to know. Lord Allerton died from an overdose of chloral. It was an accident, yet a scandal arose because Jim and Sheila were once engaged. That same night,. unfortunately, Jim went to see Sheila — he told her that night that he loved you.” “Did he?” . said Joan, here eyes misty with a sudden rush of tears of self-reproach.
Deeply as lie regretted Joan,. lie was glad she* was saved it. His life was blasted when familiar friends passed him with a. cool nod, or moved across the road to avoid him. Those with 'ess at stake, sniggered a little as they talked to him,, conscious that they got a thrill from association, and clapping him on the back with false friendliness. He hated that most of all. How often Joan’s letter was read, read and thereby became an aggravation of his .misery. It had a, morbid influence, for he seemed to get some bitter pleasure in repeating Joan’s lfist words over and over again to himself. .# One thing he knew —endurance coil’d not last ; for ever.. Then Sheila, .rang him up, a Sheila subdued and miserable too. But Jim rang off at the sound of her voice. He had no pity for anyone then. He was too down himself. Joan had made tracks for the Lake District. She had no reason for going there save a poster at the. station, when like a hunted mare she hurried away because she had discovered Jim had gone to see Sheila. But her choice wa s good. She found rooms at Grange, and here in the silence of the hills. Joaii managed to regain a litt’e of her old poise. Far away from Richmond,, away from Jim, away, from, Sheila, Joan took a stocktaking, and .she shrank away in horror as sherealised, the wickedness wliicli had lain in her heart lately. Shocked and dismayed, Joan determined to stay there until she had purged herself. . rr.y, l .... Looking out over Borrowdale, with its, giant mountains piercing the sky, and ilie cool, limpid, water pf the lake, reflecting their _ rugged grandeur, it seemed, to Joan as though the giri she lea’ly wgs had been buried beneath a maze of jealousy and bitter resentment, so terrible, that she had let her soul he suffocated.
“That’s not the end,” said the old man gloomily. “For somehow the breath of suspicion turned to Jim. You ought to have been at home, Joan, awaiting your husband, instead of run. ning- away. You. haven’t done.: right, child, and Jim, has suffered. He has suffered anguish. Because you: were not there with society, ever ready to believe the worst,, think there’s some truth in the story. The whispers are ugly. As, far as the law’s concerned. Jim’s all right, hut as far as friendship, integrity, honour—well, they think Jim lost his. Only you can comfort Jim now, and I’m hot sure even you can do it.” • “Oh, but I will!” said Joan, passionately moved. “I will!” - She was to her feet. Oh, she had failed! The frail barque of matrimony had heeled over because she was not balancing properly. Had she been so poor a thing as to let the old diary upset hll that made life, hearable? Had she broken Jiin’s heart ? Left him to face cruel slander —the whispers of lying tongues?
She was hurrying into the cottage. Very soon, without .one. backward glance at the exquisite ivohder .of the lakes, Joan tunjeJ and left, to go back to Jim, there to, make whqt she .could of the shipwreck of their, hiarried-Jife, there to start again, expecting nothing, Hoping nothing, hiit enduring everything. Sticking to Jim because he, had been in deep waters, facing his,rejection of her love, maybe—only she must be there. They travelled through th© night to London, arriving travel-stained . but hopeful in the early morning Stephen Dovle insisted she breakfast in the station, and over the meal spok© graves ly. “You must tell him about the child,” said Uncle Stephen firmly. “That will help Jim now, help him to regain his old poise. Joan, biting her lip to keep it from quivering, nodded. Yes,. Jim should know! Not- only because it .would help him to regain his old poise, hut because she wanted to tell Him, wanted to show Him that slie loved him, loved him, and always would:
It was like climbing up from some stagnant pond. This “being apart,’’ was a stepping stone to getting out of that darkness. She had let that wretched diary embitter her whole life, that and Sheila. Yet the affair with Sheila was over three years before. Had not Sheila tried to make mischief before! Why, then, had she- not given Jim a chance to explain. Was the love and kindness Jim had shown her to count for nothing? Was her pride so great that she* would accept nothing from him but the very best? In deep humiliation Joan commenced with her soul, and found how low she had fallen, and was amazed and ashamed.
This change was gradual. It did not, 1 by any means, come all at Once. For the first days Joan literally soaked in the peace of the place. Somehow, one grew close to God here, with no houses, shops, busy bustling places, and people in between. She had lost her way, but. here she might find , the, narrow.. road again. At last her soul was purged and purified. Even their, she. made a mistake and did not ryrite directly to Jim. Some foolish' pride, eh, that wicked, pride, stopped her! Later she regretted in dust and ashes ,tliat she had not written direct to Jihi. ;
. Slie heard the, poise and hustle of London as though it. were a- dearly-loved friend. . . It meant Jim . . . Jim.! Every rattle of a motor bus, every raucous, hoot of a motor siren sounded Jim’s name.
“I'll not come, too,” said Uncle Stephen. He saw her eves were dewy and .sweet, and knew things would be all right .for Jim. So he left her, went to the office, for if Jim were there he must be sent home at once. ’ So, at last Joan came to the Richmond house, running up to his dear study to find him ! It seemed to Joan as if all trouble had gone, that wonderful moment.
As it was, her letter went to Stephen Doyle.
“Dear Uncle Stephen,—Don’t tell Jim that I am here, but please will you .ivrite to iiie and te£l hie ,if * you think Jim really cares for me ? ,I think I hay©, i>C:eh a little too impetuous. This/letter., is written in confidence, Uncj,e Stejiheh, but do write and tell me how Jim v is, and if you think he misses hie.—t-\Soiir loving Joan.” Shephen Doyle did not trust lii s answer to the post. lie,, took train iimncdiately to Grunge, and found Joan, sitting, hands cupping her w-isjful face, staring out ,over the wonderful view. She saw little of it. She was seeing Jim’s miserable eyes and marvelling anew at her own hardness of heart. ; , Then she caught sight of Stephen Doyle aiul distantly was stricken to the heart at his changed appearance.. . -.‘-‘Why, Uncle Stephen,” said Joan, “You’re, ill. AYhat’s the matter?” “Matter,., said Uncle Stephen brusquely, . “Why must folk act on impulse? Why couldn’t you have thrashed the thing out, Joan, without disappearing and never leaving a word where you had gone. You’ve given us a. pretty rough time. “I’ve not told .Jim. Best thing you can do is to go straight back to him, and give him the best shock you can.” Joan pursed up her mouth a little defiantly, and then, seeing his evident concern and distress, her face clouded like a chidden child’s, and tears welled HP- i . . ' “You’ve been very hard with Jim, Joan,” said Uncle Stephen reproachfully, but his glance was soft. “And if j... didn’t love yon so I. would feel inclined to .be very angry. Yet, because I know you so well I am sure you thought you had a good reason. Perhaps you’ll tell me now,”
Cook came, panting, worried. “Oh, ma’am!.The master didn’t know you were coming. I’ve orders to shui the house anj act as caretaker.” , Joan’s face tailed. She closed her eyes for a moment. , , ..- , “Where’s he gone?” she whispered, clutching :> chair-hack. “To New York,” said cook sobbingly. “By the Minerva. It sails from Southhampton this afternoon.”
CHAPTER XXIV. Ilia, moiperit Joan was all energy. She gave orders crisply. “Ring up Mr. Stephen Doyle at the office.” , - When the .ol® man was got on the ’phone she webt to it—told him just what -she had heard. . ~ “Ho just about must have come.to tile end of, .endurance,!” muttered., the old man. “Rooi* lad! What can w e do — send a wire to stop him?” - “No! I’m going myself,” she said sharply. “Can’t you see I must, must stop him.” “But you can’t travel again, Joan! It .won’t do. You’ll exhaust yourself; you look frail, and not at all strong. You musn’t think of such a thing.”
“That’s what I want to do,” said Joan fiercely. “To think I’ve driven Him away like this! I’ll never rest till I fetch him back my very own self.” As she spoke a recollection of the old tenderness and love which he had showered upon her came hack with keenest remeinher a nee,. That, had beep,love that, had been poiifed on,lier! Jim, was; no lih’.omat to act what lie was not feelr ing Back to the old days .her mind went. While they were engaged how
slowly he had begun to caress her. So gradually he had bestowed those halfshy caresses of his. He had leanied then to love her—oh, yes. . . how had she doubted him? She remembered, too, that day in her old attic room, how' he had seemed impelled to clasp her to liis heart, and hold her there, and pres s his lips to hers. . There had been no fault to find with that kiss; surely she had been blind! And now, if she did not make haste, she would be too late! Tears fell from her eyes, but she dashed them away tempestuously, choking them back; not weakness, but strength was what she needed. “I’m going off at once; I’m going to find him and bring him back. Oh, pray for me, Uncle Stephen! Only God can help me to bring Jim back.” Sh e was gone. A car had been rung up, and, in spite of cook’s protests, for she saw Joan was, plainly far too worn oiit and overwrought- to go, Joan went.
She had become resolute, determined, with a stubborness which was rocklike in its quality, and she meant to find’Jim, for the idea- of him going to America at the present moment scared her. She hungered for him now with a deep, inward hunger. Some instinct told her he ought to he her© now, but instead of letting Uncle Stephen go, she must rush off herself, a great fever impelling her. , The train rid e was a terrible, exciting one. Her mind travelled far quicker than the engine. Ah. how. dangerous it. was for man and wife to let anything creep in to separate them. How delicate a bond was matrimony! How slight a. touch could upset the exquisitely balanced machinery. How soon could the goblet of love lie smashed to atoms at one’s feet. She swore to- herself then that the new goblet should be filled to the brim 'with something mare enduring. more lasting than the old love. She blamed herself now for her, headlong determination to keep her own counsel. She hated herself for that pride that had hated Jim should have seen that entry in the diary! As the train tore along, it seemed as though Joan went to the* very bottom of her heart, and cleansed it from the uncharitableness which sh e knew she had harboured. At last Southhampton was reached. A', strange excitement pervaded 'her as she* hailed a taxi to go to the* quay.
OHere the Minerva* was getting steam up. She was only- just in time! She sped up towards the great steamboat. It seemed to* Joan that the* boat had a brutal look. Did it not carry husband away from wife, child away from its parents? Her heart semed to beat so quickly that her throat seemed- choked. She wanted Jim desperately. A sudden faintness came- as she reached the gang-plank. Someone asked her her name* and business, but before she could . reply she caught sight of a familiar figure, hurrying up towards the boat. Familiar? Yes! Appallingly so! Never could Joan forget that slim elegant ■lire with the little gacefu] swing. Dressed in "black, with a heavy black veil drawn closely down over her face, like *a lightning flash Joan recognised her. It was Sheila! Joan darted Hack, cowering behind some belated luggage. Sh e heard Shei. la’s voice.
“Has Mr. Doyle come on hoard yet?” She., heard the answer. “I think he has, ma’am.” She saw Sheila go along, saw heads turn in admiration after her —and she knew. Uncle Stephen, kind Uncle Stephen, had been wrong. Jim had tricked them alii -He did love Sheila, hut he had hidden.it well. He was going to Ajfierica with .Sheila . . He jiad hot suffered, - though Uncle’ Stephen had thought he had done; he had just been clever enough to hide his guilty passion from,,th e odd man. . _ Slowly she turned. All the vivid fire had died ddwn. Not a spark remained. The soft colour that lnyd touched her cheeks with rose was gone. The anima-
tion, so full of hope, which had a great glow to her eyes, and curved her lfps into sweetness, seemed to have been wiped out, as though by some cruel magic. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered lifelessly to herself. “It doesn’t matter. nothing matters any more.” Like one walking in a dream she crept back. She never remembered how she got to the station. She found Uncle Stephen there. The* agitated old man had followed immediately, and when he saw her. all broken, like a pale, fragile ghost of the girl .he had oiice known, lie put his arms round her in a vain effort to keep her from this new grief that had stricken her. “Where’s Jim?” ,he asked,' as he" helped her into the train. “Wasn’t he there?” ...... • H “I’ve changed my mind. Uncle Stephen,” she whispered. ‘Take me home, take me where I shan’t ever see anyone again as long as I live. I don’t want Jim now. I want to get home.” Utterly at his wits’ end as to how to manage this temperamental and inexplicable little being, quite at sea as to the change that had come so anidly, he could only do as she asked. The journey was an experience he never wished for again as long as he lived. But at last they reached London. She was crying now, pitifully weak, ly, and, thoroughly alarmed, he hurried her back to Richmond. “You were wrong, Uncle Stephen,”* she said, ns the car sped up Hill Rise ix> the ton of the hill, and the velvety darkness was stabbed with stars. “He wasn’t true tall the time. :I didn’t mean to tell you, but I must. Jim wasn’t alone. He was with Sheila.” “No! I can’t believe it!” gasped the furiously perturbed old man. “He couldn’t have deceived us both like that. I’ll never believe in a: human being’s goodness and honour again if Jim’s faithless.” “I saw her,” said Joan faintly. “We were deceived. He always loved her* ... I always was odd man out.” . She looked ghastly, and* suddenly Uncle Steohen forgot Jim—everything —in the need of Jim’s wife And that night, alone, • with Jim. miles away in body, and oh, such miles away in spirit, Joan’s baby was born. (To be continued).
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Hawera Star, Volume XLV, 25 July 1925, Page 16
Word Count
3,250The Money Maid Hawera Star, Volume XLV, 25 July 1925, Page 16
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