THE STRUGGLE.

Lyttelton Times, Volume CXV, Issue 16493, 7 March 1914, Page 5

THE STRUGGLE.

(Bj J. J. BELL.) [All Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER I. “Talking of conscription,” the handsome, white-haired guest remarked, helping himself to a walnut, “just as I was leaving the club to-night I heard that General Farrar, one of the most strenuous advocates, had died suddenly this afternoon.” “General Farrar!” exclaimed the young host, and simultaneously a cry. came from the hostess. “Dear me! Pray forgive me.” The guest looked apologetically from one to the other. “ I was not aware that the general was a friend ” “Ob, that’s all right, Sir Philip,” the host hastened to say reassuringly. “ We know the general only by name, though we happen to have the acquaintance of some of his relations, the Stanfords. Do you know them?” The question seemed to miss Fir Philip’s ears; his attention was all for his hostess. “ Mrs Lennard, I fear I have upset you,” he was murmuring self-reproachfully. “ Oh, no—not really, Sir Philip. I can’t think why I should have been startled ”

“Why, Hilda,” said her husband, “you look as if you had seen a ghost!” “Nonsense, Frank!” She laughed almost easily. Her colour was already coming hack. “ I’m afraid you are developing those nerves again,” he said, smiling, albeit anxiety lingered in his eyes. “ Just as well, perhaps, that we no longer need to go out to-morrow.” He turned to his guest, remarking: “Mrs Stanford was to have given a dance in the Ritz to-morrow evening.” “Ah!” said Sir Philip, his eyes still on his hostess.

“ And the truth is,” said Hilda, with another uncertain laugh, “ I’m frightfully disappointed. Am I not a heartless person, Sir Philip?” “I should not have thought so,” the old man replied, a trifle drily. “ You are fond of dancing, Mrs Lennard?” “ Well, this was to have been a special affair,” put in Lennard (who was plainly puzzled by his wife’s manner). “ Apart from the dance itself, Hilda and I were going to regard it as a sort of celebration of the anniversary of our wedding ” “ We shall have been married for five years,” Hilda interrupted as one who feels speech absolutely necessary. “ What shall we do by way of celebration now, Frank?” “What do you say to a quiet evening at home, Hilda?” It was a serious question lightly put.

“How horrid!” She pouted. “Of course, I didn’t mean that, dear, but surely we ought to celebrate such an occasion in festivo fashion. Don’t you agree with me, Sir Philip?” Her smile was charming. “ I am afraid I must ask you to permit me to agree with your husband’s suggestion,” Sir Philip answered with gentle gravity. “ A quiet evening together seems to me a real celebration after five gay and happy years.” He raised his glass. “My dear Mr and Mrs Lennard, I drink to you both. May your future be as happy as your past, and—if possible—happier.” Once more his gaze lingered on the young woman, and suddenly she flushed to her dark hair.

“ Thanks, Sir Philip; thanks from us both.” Lennard tried to speak brightly, but he was feeling dissatisfied, irritated ; he could nob have told why. Until five minutes ago lie had been in the best of spirits, and the informal little dinner had gone merrily, as their little dinners had always gone with Sir Philip as a guest. Was the old man to blame? Nonsense 1 How should the announcement of an unknown person’s death that involved no more than the cancellation of a dance upset his wife? Hilda had shown similar signs in the past; during the last two years she had suffered from brief attacks of nervousness, especially before and after big entertainments. She must really see a doctor this time. Hilda broke the short but somewhat strained silence. “ Shall we have coffeo in the billiard-room or in the library?” she asked, pressing the electric button beside her plate. “ Let’s have it in the library, Hilda. Percival is coming in for a game, but before he arrives I want to show Sir Philip your necklace.” “My necklace!”

“ Why, yes, Hilda. I brought it from the bank to-day because 1 thought you would want it for the Stanford's dance.” He paused to allow of her giving the order to the man who had entered and was standing attentive at the door.

“ Yes, yes, of course. I—l expected you would bring it from the bank.” She appeared to be unaware of the servant’s presence. “ I suppose you have left it in your safe in the library. I>o you think Sir Philip would really care to see it, Frank?” “My dear, Briggs is there.” “Oh ! . . . Briggs, we shall have coffee in the—the billiard-room.” “ Yes, ma’am.” The servant bowed and retired. Sir Philip, who had given him more than one casual glance, made a slight grimace. ' “ 1 thought it was to be the library.” Leonard was looking at liis wife. She was pale again; her fingers toyed restlessly with a wine-glass. His heart smote him. He had been allowing her to overdo it. “All right, dear,” he said kindly ; “ the billiard-room will do excellently. We should have been going there in any case on Percival’s arrival. Meanwhile I’ll take Sir Philip to the library and show him the necklace. He is a judge of diamonds, and I want liis opinion.”

“ Delighted I” said Sir Philip. It seemed almost as if he had turned his back on his hostess. “ You are speaking, I presume, of the necklace you gave your wife just after you were married. You have more than once promised to show it to me.” Mrs Lennard rose. “ Don’t wait for me,” she said, her hand on the back of her chair. “I’ll follow you immediately.”

“ Hilda, said her husband, “ are you feeling fit enough?” She contrived a semblance of a smile. “Perfectly. A little tired, perhaps. Nothing serious, I assure you.” Lennard hesitated, then left the room with the guest. Hilda’s grip on the chair tightened; her body relaxed and drooped. “ Oh, my God,” she whispered, “help me to do something quickly.” When she reached the library her husband was stooping behind the open door of the safe. Her ears informed her that he was fitting a key into a drawer. Sir Philip was standing by the hearth, and to him she went directly She was now very pale. Aloud she said : “ I shall wait for you in the billiard-room, Frank.” In scarce a whisper: “Read it now.” She turned and went, leaving in her guest’s hand a narrow si in of paper. There was the sound of a steel drawer sliding open. Sir Philip scanned the hurriedly pencilled words: “ For God’s sake, pretend you think the stones are real.” CHAPTER 11. About ten o’clock she excused herself to her guests on tho plea of feeling the billiard-rctpm too warm. “I shall write tc Mrs Stanford and then go to bed,” she told her husband, who was then “marking” for ihe others. “ Go to bed, dear, and leave everything else till the morning,” he said tenderly. “ And perhaps we shall do something moderately festive to-mor-row, after all. In the afternoon-, we’ll have a look at the jewellers’ shops. Yau want a new ring.’*

“Oh, no, no I” He laughed. “ And then I’ve decided to have the necklace reset—-Sir Philip thinks the stones don’t get their proper chance; so ” “ Seven to go, old man,” interrupted Percival.

“All right., . . What I ara you oil Hilda?”

“Yes. Good-night, all,’’ ohe managed to say from the doorway, her hand pressed hard to her heart.”

Ten minutes later Sir Philip found her in the.library, cowering over the fire, though May was near its end. _ “ Frank is playing a hundred with Mr Percival,” he remarked, seating himself on the other side of the hearth. “ Like you, I found the atmosphere of the billiard-room a little oppressive.” She did not respond, save with a glance, and the misery in her eyes shocked him.

“Mrs Lennard,” he said softly, “Well?” she whispered at last,

He took a bit of paper—a narrow slip—from his waistcoat pocket and gave it deliberately to the fire. _ “My dear,” he said gently, “to-night I have lied to your husband, whom I have known and loved since he was a little boy. His mother was the lady I would fain have married. I remember her when she was a girl like you—very like you. I think it was partly for her sake that I did what your note asked me to do.”

Hilda put a hand to her head. “I thank you,” she said; “I am very grateful .... But, oh! why did you advise him to have a new setting? Now I am ruined—utterly ruined. Tomorrow he will take it to the jeweller, and then Well, I suppose I ought not to have expected you to think of everything, Sir Philip.” “ I tried to think of everything, Mrs Lennard. Can’t you guess why I suggested resetting the stones?”

She started. “ Surely—surely you did not want to betray me?” “No; to save you. My motive was simply to force your hand.” “To force my hand!” “In other words, to compel you to tell your husband everything.” “Oh, never! Hofc cruel!” She covered her face. “My poor child,” he said in a low voice,there is no other hope for you. I’m an old man, and I know. You must tell him everything ” “He would detest me!”

“ Ah, no! T beg you to believe me when I say that he would neither hate nor despise you. I would ask you to believe also that it would be easier for me to give you a blank cheque than this advice ’ ’

“ A blank chcqne?” “Yes. I’m surely an old enough friend to be permitted to do that. A cheque with which to redeem the real necklace—so that you might, in some sly and underhand fashion, substitute it for the false.”

“Stop! Sir Philip, you don’t understand'—of course, you can’t understand. I—l have the real necklace ” Involuntarily she raised her voice. “ ’Sh!” Sir Philip, holding up a hand for silence, rose and tiptoed to the door, which he opened softly, suddenly. Closing it, he nodded. “ All right. But I don’t like your manservant, Mrs Lennard. Has he been long in your service?”

“ Only a month. Why?” She uncovered her face.

“ I may be wrong. I’m an old man, and old men have fancies.” He came back to the hearth and seated himself. “You have the real necklace Where?” he asked gently. “In my room, upstairs.’ There was a silence for some seconds. Then Sir Philip said: “Do you wish to tell me more?’’

“ I will tell you everything.” Ho sighed. “ That is what you must tell Frank.”

Her head drooped. “I am hoping that when you have heard everything you will no longer think it necessary for me to—to kill Frank’s love.” Ho shook his handsome white head, smiling faintly. “Oh, thou of little faith! But tell me what you will, my dear.”

Presently, with lowered gaze, she began to speak, “I suppose you have guessed that it- started with' cards—• bridge. But it was bridge in the afternoons. Women’s parties. I think women are worse than men. I was. At first I didn’t like playing for money. I don’t think I ever played for money until I had been married for two, years. And then—l didn’t know where to stop. At the end of one year I was deeply in debt and—terrified.” She paused for a moment. “At that time I kept the necklace with my other jewels. I didn’t know its value. I don’t know it now. But- ”

“ Seven thousand pounds,” Sir Philip remarked quietly. “ Oh! I had no idea it was worth nearly so much. Well, when the debts were driving me crazy I—l decided to pawn the necklace. I had heard of people getting paste copies made of their valuable jewels, and a woman—the one I owed the most money to—showed me the. way. The day after I got home with tho false necklace there was a burglary in the neighbourhood. Frank insisted on keeping the necklace in future at the bank. I—l had to give him the false one, for . the real one was already pawned. I paid all my debts —and I wasn’t a bit happy.” “Poor thing!” “ But since then,” she went on, “ I have never played bridge. Since then I have scraped together every penny I could from my allowance—Frank is very generops—and all the interest on my own tiny little bit of money, and I have pretended to be awfully extravagant and frightfully charitable, when I’ve been really economical and mean. And yesterday 1 was able to get the real necklace back from pawn.” Once more she covered her face. “ You think that was nothing?” “My dear!” Sir Philip rose and stood looking down on her with infinite pity. “ And then?” “And after the Stanford’s dance I was going to give back Frank the real necklace.” “And then?”

She dropped her hands and turned up a.pale. indignant face. Bo gave her no time to speak. “You have done a great thing, Hilda,” he said, “ but il cannot take tho place of confession. 1 am thinking cf you. Toll Frank, and he will forgive you. Tell him not, and you will never forgive yourself. Tell him everything to-night.” “ Oh, you are hard —hard! You have made it so that I must either tell him I have been a wicked little fool or be discovered as a wretched cheat.” “ We have all been wicked and foolish. . . . Tell him to-night.” Suddenly she slipped to her knees before him. She caught his hand. “It —it would be so simple a thing for you to —to ask to Bee the necklace a gam, and exchange it for the real one.” “Ah!”

“It would be my salvation, Sir Philip. Could you not- ”

“You do not know- wdiat you are saying, my dear,” he said firmly. “If you actually saw a person deliberately deceiving your husband, you would want to kill that person. Is it not so?” She let go his hand and rose slowly to her feet. “Then I had better kill myself.” She took a few steps away from him and threw herself on a couch. Sir Philip wiped his brow. “Mrs Lennard, do you love your husband?” “ Have I not been saying as much ever since I told you my secret?”

He sighed. “ I have heard a woman speak like that in a play,” he said. “ I’m an old man and old-fashioned. If I did what you suggest, I could never face Frank again. As it is, his eyes can eh none me now. Oh. Hilda,

Frank’s wife, let this old fellow go on being as proud of you as he has been since that happy wedding day 1 Be brave, be brave, my dear. For Frank s sake, as well as your own. Make his future happiness and your own secure against any ugly whisper out of thv, past. Remember your secret is known to at least one woman.” He moved to where she sat and laid a hand on her shoulder, for now her head was bowed and her breath was coming sobbingly. “You will tell him to-night?” he 6aid very softly. It seemed that he had' won. “I will, I will 1” she murmured. _ “That is grand of you,”’ he whispered, and took her hand and kissed it, and went from her presence with wet old eyes. CHAPTER 111. “I will tell him everything!” Lying in bed, Hilda heard midnight strike, and soon thereafter voices and the clang of the hall door. Mr Percival had taken his departure. “I will toll him everything!” Voices again, nearer at hand. Her husband' was conducting Sir Philip to his room. Then a door closed softly, and there was a long silence. Evidently her husband had gone downstairs again. “I will tell him everything!” But when at last Frank entered the room her eyes were 6hut, and she was lying very still. She was conscious of his looking down at her, but not of the infinite tenderness in nis eyes. Presently he bent over her; she heard him sigh, felt the touch of his lips on her hair. As he moved away slie nearly cried out. He passed into the adjoining room. ... One o’clock. She thought she" heard a sound on the stairs and listened; but all was quiet. “I will tell him everything!” she repeated feverishly, staring at the nightlight; yet she lay still, and the seconds of another hour trod wearily past. Suddenly the question smote her: "What if she were to be taken ill—so ill that she could not tell him anything? What if she were to die?

She got up and slipped on her pretty dressing-gown. From its secret hidingplace—which an inquisitive infant would have discovered—she took the real necklace in its case. The door was not shut; to her cautious pressure it yielded soundlessly. She stole into her husband’s room.

He was fast asleep. But she would go down on her knees at his bedside and waken him gently, and—tell him everything. A feeling of weakness assailed her, and she .sought support. Her hand fell on a ledge of the dressing-table. Her fingers touched something cold. Her ears caught the faintest of faint metallic sounds. Her eye's dropped to the cause of it. A shiver nassed through her body. In the dim light she stood staring downwards, as though fascinated. A small bunch of kevs.

The tiny light that was wont to burn in the hall throughout the night may have served her as she descended the staircase and crossed to the library; yet a spy would have deemed her progress to be that of a sleep-walker. Hie door of the library swung silently before her; as silently it closed behind her. In the darkness her hand groped for the electric switches on tho wall. A pause of hesitation ended in a click. The bulbs on either side of the mantelpiece leapt into luminance. And the woman staggered. “Sir Philip 1” she gasped. The old man was seated in an'easychair in front of the dead fire. “ Ah,” he remarked, rising, “it is you, Sirs Lennard. I got it into my old head that your servant Briggs might come to-night and try the safe, which is not a particularly strong one. I warned your husband about Briggs whom T am certain I have seen in ?S3 reputable service than the present, hut I fear he did* not take me serious! >\ However, I do not now think Briggs will attempt anything to-night. v be lights will scare him off. Still, I -ouid recommend ynuto part with him as soon as possible, unless you are satisfied that* the whole thing is an old man’s delusion. But’’—lie moved owards her—“permit me to retire, Mrs Lennard. I fear I may be in the way.” She was leaning against the door, her eyes half closed. Possibly her mind did not grasp what he had been talking about. “ Do not be afraid,” lie said suavely. “ Any attempt at burglary has been at least postponed. Will you allow me to pass, please?” He stood waiting, watching. All at once her eyes opened wide, like the eyes of a hunted creature. Her strength seemed to fail, and tho leather case and bunch of keys she had been holding to her bosom fell at her feet. He stooped, picked them up, and offered them to her, saying: “It won’t take you two minutes to open that safe, make the exchange, and close it a^ain— —” 1 Qh. but you are killing me,” she breathed. “I hate you!” . “ and those two minutes will poison all the hours of your life.” “ How dare you meddle ” “ Perhaps because I am an old man who loves your husband—and you':” She moved aside from the door. “Oil, go!” she whispered. “I can bear no more. At first I thought you were right, but now—oh, I dare not risk losing Frank. Can’t you understand that? And if I’ve got to suffer all my life- 1 ” , , ~ “My dear,” ho interrupted gently, “liow much do you love your husband?” She stared at him. “Can’t you see that I love him above everything? She spoke almost irritably. “Then,” lie said_ calmly, ‘you cannot open that safe.” There was a silence while she took the keys from his hand, crossed the floor and stooped before the steel door. “I care nothing for honour or anything else so long as I keep his love,” she muttered, choosing the key. “ Whose honour?” the old man softly asked. “ Whose is the honour when you and ho are one?” “ ■Oh l” It was as if he had struck her. She wavered and sank to lior knees. Presently she began to sob. “ Oh, God‘, I can’t do it!” “ Poor child, poor child !” he siglieq. “Of course you can’t do it.” But he waited for a- little while ere he approached her. She allowed him to lead her from the library, wherein lie left the- light burning, and upstairs, and to the door of her room. “I am going to tell him now,” she whispered. “ Wait till the morning,” lie murmured, in spite of himself, in spite of all that had passed, for he was torn with pity for her. She shook her head and passed from his sight.

Her husband had not stirred since her last glimpse of him. She knelt by the bedside, clutching the necklace and seeking to summon the courage she still required to utter his name. She wa6 in torment.

She sought to W'alcen him by gazing at his closed eyes until her brain seemed about to fail her, and her head drooped against the edge of the pil- , low.

Time parsed, and despite her mental agony she became conscious of a slight physical discomfort; something hard was pressing against her cheek. Involuntarily her- free hand made inquiry. She lifted her head. Her whole body stiffened., for her fingers recognised the case that held the false necklace.

The safety she had sought through two dreadful years was literally within her grasp; it offered itself; it awaited her acceptance. And her l«^»band

would never know; he was deeping so soundly—so soundly. But even aB she glanced stealthily at his face an awful horror of herself seized her. “Save me, Frank!” 6he cried, and gripping his shoulder, she shook him frantically. In the dawn Lennard watched over his wife in her slumber of utter exhaustion. At last her breath was beginning to come naturally, a faint colour waa ; gaining upon the pallor of her face,! 1 the shadows of suffering were passing away. “Thank God!” he said softly, and i bent to kiss her. Which may suggest, among other things, that Sir Philip had not meddled altogether unwisejj.