SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3398, 30 April 1919, Page 58

SHORT STORIES.

[All Rights Reserved.]

HER SECRET.

By y?&LT$n E. Grogast

Miss Grace Grenstead sat at her davenport in the window of the little drawing room, a little, fragile-looking woman in a dove-grey silk dress and a lace fichu. Her sllvrry hair was parted in the centre and smoothed, down on either 'side under a" lace cap. At her- thin wrists were little pleated ruffles. Her hands, busy with papers taken from the davenport drawers, were thin and transparent, and beautifully shaped. In some curious way the room fitted her rather than she the room. They were both Mid-Yictorian; they both belonged to the era of day dream3—day dreams scented with lavender and lemon verbena; but she had a dominating influence, gentlef sweet, lovable, but dominating, as the scent of a rose dominates the scent of mould. ' * The door opened and a young girl entered quickly. ■ The plain white muslin dress, rather short, and a wide yellpw waist scarf set off her dark hair and eyes

and full rich colouring. Miss Grace Grenstead looked round and smiled. Into her quiet grey eyes came a sparkle of pleasure. . "You are dressed for your party, •Mona?" she asked.

"Yes, dear." She knelt impulsively beside Miss .Grace and kissed 'one of the white, transparent hands. "I shan't like ;. it a bit withouti you. These parties, with weak gossip and'weaker tea, are—are preAdamite. Merston is £0 slow." V Is it? 'We can see the glories by the wayside all the .better if we travel slowly, Mona:" She smiled again. " But it is the way of youth to be impulsive. I was' very impulsive when I was voung." " You, dear?" Mona opened her big black eyes and~frowned. "I don't want ■to, ever think of you as young. You are i so perfect as you are. When is the tiresome lawyer man coming?" ,/*He is not coming. He has sent me a telegram to say that he is unwell." "How stupid of him!" " r am very sorry ■ for his ill-health, Mona," corrected Miss Grace Grenstead. " Yes, you are; you are always sorry for everybody, but lam not. He puts you out." . "It is a smalLmatter, Mona. Mr Greenhough has gout—3»nd that is very pain•iiil. My Uncle George suffered from it." " j.our Uncle George! He would be my great-uncle if he had liveS?" t Into the thin, smooth cheeks came a . «low thin colour.

"'Whatever made you leave Cheltenham?" continued the young girl. "You. lived there all your life until —until just before I can remember."

" I—l wanted a change." The soft.

high voice sounded embarrassed, but eighteen is not an age which observes

,.- , "Auntie-Grace!" Mona sat back upon her heels and looked straightly at Miss Grace Grenstead. "I met an old man at the vicarage to-day. His name was Chambers."

Miss Grace Grenstead clasped her .thin, tfhite hands tightly. Her grey eyes were panic-stricken. "He used to live in Cheltenham. He said that you had no sister. I told him he was mistaken. He was quite rude about it. Hateful old man!"

"Did you—did you tell him your name?" The thin, high voice was very breathless, but Mona still noticed nothing. "Yes—Mona Merrimay. He said he had never heard of Merrimay. And he was quite sure you. had no sister. It'fl absurd, because I could not be your niece if you hadn't a sister." She laughed. "I expect it. was a failure of memory. He was old enough, goodness knows I" " I—l had no sister, Mona." "No sister!" The girl stared blankly it her. ' "Then I ' 7

"Then- ycu are not my niece?" Miss -3race Grenstead's voice was infinitely tender. That re so. You have always taken tap 8n faith, dear. But you are as dear to me—dearer —than any niece could be." - *

"-But I don't understand! My mother?" The girl was bewildered. She rose and stood a little away, her hands clasped behind her, her brow working, thinking. " I never knew her."

"And my fatrer—mv father, who died? Did you know him?" Her voice had grown inquisitorial. " I have told you- "

" Yes, dear, I know. But you have let me believe that I was your niece. And

now—l feral at sea. I don't know. I don't know what to believe."

"I knew your father. Now go, Mona. You will be late for your party." She would not look at the troubled young face. " And he was brave, and honourable, and good? You told me so, but I want to hear it again. Yon have brought me up to revere his memory. The knowledge of his goodness helped me. But now —I am at sea. I want to be toid again. I want to be sure of something, to hold on to something." " He was a noble man—a good man. You must always remember that." The sweet high voice faltered over the words, and the two thin hands were strained in their clasp. Mona stopped forward and kissed the small white brow. " Thank you, dear. I am glad. You must tell me some more soon." "It—it is painful, dear, to me." - "Dear!" The young eyes stared at the thin cheeks, coloured with the thin, unusual pink. "You—you loved him?" " Yes." It was almost a whisper. " Then he must have been a good man, end I shall always be proud of being his daughter. You—you are trembling, dear. I am sorry; I won't speak of it any more. Oh, what a lot of money!" She turned

to the davenport where a bundle of notes lay. "Is that the thousand pounds Farmer Tingall paid you for the mortgage or something?" " Yes. Mr Greenhough was going to take it away with him to lend on another mortgage. It seemed so much simpler than taking it to the bank —a visit to the bank always flusters me. I fear I am not a good business woman. But to-morrow I must lodge it in safe custody." She spoke with her usual sweet primness. "Shall I lock it up for you, dear."

"Oh, no. You must really hurry, Mona. You know Mrs Temperley always likes you to come early. You are a great help to her."

The little figure in grey sat very still for long after*the, door closed upon Mona. The thin, trembling lips muttered half audibly. , . "It .was sure to come," Miss Grace Grenstead muttered. "She must have known sooner or later that I was not her aunt. But no more —she shall never know any more." Then, after a longer pause, she added,- " 0 'Lord, forgive me, forgive me!" and hid her face in her hands.-

The trim, severe-looking parlourmaid peeped in at the door. "There is a —gentleman"—a marked hesitation occurred before the latter word —" to see you, miss," the servant prefaced, when she was brushed aside and a man entered.

He was tall, and had been handsome in a bold, dark, dashing fashion. Now marks of dissipation had marred that former beauty of his. His eyes were prominent and bloodshot, his mouth thinlipped and slack. He was dressed ■i 'bbily in tweeds, but the clothes had been well cut. His linen was not immaculate, and a two days' beard bristled greyly on his chin.'Miss Grace Grenstead looked up. For a moment. she stared, fascinated, at him. . She seemed to shrink into a frightened fold, woman all at once. She rose as though to greet him, but sat down on the chintz sofa instead.

"Ronald!" she said, in a frightened, wondering, questioning voice. "Close the door," he directed the maid, and waited. Then he came jauntily for•ward. "Grace— I have found you," " What do you want?" she demanded. "Mostly everything —principally money." He laughed hardly. "I have an extensive lack of „ all the things which make life worth living. Grace, I want help." "You should have made application to Mr Greenhough, Ronald. He has my instructions."

"Greenhough!" He is an unsympathetic lawyer."- The, man smiled, chose a chair, eat "down, and crossed his legs. Then he moistened his bjps with the tip of his tongue. For aU'nis jaunty bravado, there was a look of strain in his eyes. "I want a lot of money." 41 Greenhough"*" allows you -" Miss Grace commenced. ... .

"A pound a week. What is that? A bagatelle—nothing. lam in.a tight place. I want more. To be plain with you, Grace, I must have more, a great deal more. A lump sum ctown." " I can do no more for you." The thin lips closed firmly. Then, following the direction of his eyes—eyes which suddenly glowed with satisfaction —she saw the open davenport and the-roll of notes. She crosed over to* it and locked it quietly. The man frowned at the little grey back stooping over its labour.

"You must,. Grace. I have had a hard task to find you. No one in Cheltenham knew where you had gone. Of course, Greenhough was no use.'

• She returned to the sofa and sat there .primly, her thin hands folded in her lap. "I shall still allow the pound a week, Ronald —but that, now, will be on the condition that you never come near me again." "Grace!" He stared at her. His memory was of a compliant, generous, easily-swayed woman. " You do not know how badly—■— You are well off." "I was well off once, Bonald," she said with emphasis. For a moment a shamed look spread over his face—but the moment was brief. He had outgrown shame. "You have been good to me, I know," he said. "But iny need now is great, colossal, terrifying. You must, Grace"." He hectored a little. "You were always a woman to be content with little." "I have someone dependent on me now." She looked at him bravely, resolution in her eyes, in the set of/her greycovered "A companion!" he sneered. "A niece, they told me in the village. You have no niece." " No, I have no niece." Her voice grew tender. " But I have an adopted child."

"Adopted?" He lifted his head suddenly ; there was a menacing gleam in his eyes. "Who is she?" "The daitghter of a friend." "A dead friend?" The thin colour came again slowly into the .ivory cheeks. Then she met his gaze sadly. "Yes, a dead friend," she said, and sighed. "What's her na-ne?" "Merrimay." "I don't know the name. Some friend you made* after— —" He edged his chair closer and leant forward. " Grace, I have the prior claim. I am in troiible. I want twelve hundred —a thousand at least. I must have it. Some —someone holds a bill I forged. There, it's out. _ I can't—l can't go back to prison again. I'm not a young man. I'm fifty-five. They'd • give me seven, ten years. I should be old when I came out." He spoke feverishly, watching her, saying to himself that he did not know this silent woman with the firmly pressed lips. " I can do no more for you, Ronald," she said quietly. "I cannot rob my adopted child. I have helped you—frequently. You have served several terms of imprisonment." Her .voice dropped a little, sounded ashamed. " Grace, she cannot be more to you

longish grey hair that lay limply on his forehea-d. "You loved me, Grace. I "was a fool to throw away You loved me. You cannot let me suffer now. The man you loved!" His sentences were broken, he spoke jerkily. He tried to soften his face, to look sentimental. It had its pathos.

" Listen, Ronald," she said. Her voice was even, and her clasped hands lay. motionless in her lap, but' two round spots of thin colour burned in her cheeks, and her grey eyes were bright"""*and a little excited. "I am an old woman, and lam only fifty-one. That is a tragedy to a woman. I have suffered very much—and all the, suffering has come through you, Ronald. When' I was young you made love to me, and we became engaged. They warned me against you, but I loved you. That is all-that I have now of that time, Ronald—the memory of the love I had. But that is much." She paused a little. You married—someone else. It turned out unhappily. It was. bound to. And then you embezzled. When you came out of prison she was dead. I helped you. I was alone then in the world, and could do what I would with my money; I gave you a new start. Then a forged bill " " I know. You bought that," he cried. "You have helped me over and over again, Grace. Tftat is why I come to you now. You are my only hope, but a strong one. If you had married me then, Grace, that first time—when Miriam was dead and I was starting afresh! Don't you see that I—that I am your work, that I have fallen again and again because you would not stand beside me?" She looked at him steadily.

" Ronald, you ' make me ashamed that J ever loved you. I thank God that I was strong enough not to marry you. / 1 gave you a chance of -winning back a good name.' You were always weak, criminally weak. And then you married again. You could not wait." " I could not live alone. I am not the man —I want trust—l want someone to believe in me." He put out his defence accusingly. " You left her." " She was not the mate for me. A poor thing—not of my class. t v was a fool. I—s got into trouble again. I swear I meant to pay back, but luck has always been against me. When I came out I heard that Mona was dead. That's a long while ago, Grace —eighteen years. There was a child." He looked craftily at her as though measuring the probable eiS&tft of flu 'appeal to sentimentality. In the old days she had readily melted. This thin, grey little woman was different. He could' not tell in what way — but different. "She'died.' If I had had a child. That keeps a man straight—the love of children. I have missed all that." He managed to bring an easy'note of pathos into his voice. "And I. have missed all that," she repeated in a soft, sad voice. "You!" He looked at her. "You have never needed help. A woman is naturally good; a man ha 3 temptations. You never had the need that I had."

" I had the need of all women, the need for love—and children.'' It was not complaint, but acceptance—a more pathetic thing. " Until she came " she added. . "This adopted child!" He could not quite smooth out all the venom in his voice. " Grace, I must have the money. I must. I will. not go back to prison. You loved me once. What can I say to move you? You were not hard once. You don't know what my life has been these last eighteen years. Everyone against me. A ticket-of-leave man. Oh, you have no chance then. I have not worried you, Grace, for fourteen years." "You could not find me," she said. It was not an accusation; it was a statement. She knew—she knew so well the manner of man she had once loved, the man who had spoilt life for her.

"To go back!" He fell upon his knees before her, his shaky hands held out to her. " I cannot, Grace! Only a thousand!" Involuntarily his eyes travelled to the davenport before they sought hers. ."Don't!" she said, shame in her gentle face. "Ronald, rise." "Do you know what I fear?" he continued in a half-considered, hysterical fashion. "To die in prison! There, that's outl Cowardly? Well, I'm a coward then. The world has made me that. To die. Seven —ten years. They'll give me that. And I'm broken now. No, no, I'll make a clean start if you will help, Grace. you shall be proud of me yet!" He caught her dress with his dirty hands. The weak, hysterical, flabby man, but nevertheless the man she loved! "In a ward of the prison infirmary! To die slowly, or, perhaps, suddenly, in the cell! Graco, Grace, I can't!" "It is impossible to help you." She spoke firmly. " I have helped you many times before. I have impoverished myself, and you have schemed to cheat even before you had finished thanking me. Now, my money is ' not my own. I—l keep it in trust for my adopted child. .She has a long life before her. I will not be weak for her sake." Tie rose theatricallv.

"Then there is only one way," he said. He felt in a waistcoat pocket with a trembling finger and thumb, and produced a phial, watching her. " The old threat, Ronald," she said bitterly. "I am not afraid." .He replaced the phial half-shamefacedly. " You refuse?"

"Yes.". Her lips trembled. "Then I go." He looked again at the davenport and at the French windows. "I hope you will never repent." When the door closed behind him, Miss Grace Grenstead sat still a while, trembling, with closed eyes. Then she rose and faltered to the mantelpiece, where stood a bottle of smelling salts. "I must not let her see that I have been agitated," she said. "MTs» Grace Grenstead lay in her bed that night with wide open eyes. She could not sleep. The meeting had been too painful, and the strain of maintain-

ing her usual gentle, unruffled manner before Mona had been too great for her nerves. Outside a nightingale was singing.

There was a click of a latch. Miss Grace Grenstead sat up and listened. Below her bedroom was the drawing room, and in the drawing room was the davenport. Burglars! Miss Grace Grenstead came to the conclusion with a sudden strangling sensation in her throat. Her heart appeared to cease beating! She felt herself trembling. Beside her bed was a bell-pull. She put out her shaking hand; she would alarm the house. Then she paused, abruptly, desperately. Another fear, greater, more horrible, had seized her. Ronald! She knew that he had noticed the bufidle of notes. Oh, not that, dear Lord! she muttered. She scrambled out of bed, hurriedly seized her dressing gown and slippers, stole. across the landing, and commenced to clamber down the stairs.

The. door of the drawing room was ajar. She stole in shakily, her heart throbbing. There was tempered light, the soft greyness of outside moonlight. Over the davenport in the window stooped* the figure of a man. There was no doubting who it was. Ronald! Ronald, who had always robbed her—always robbed her of greater things than money, who was robbing her now.

And Mona—that was it. He was robbing Mona. That must not be. She clutched at her heart. It beat so madly, and her limbs trembled. She was pitifully weak. . She made a faltering rush towards him. For the first time he was conscious of someone's presence. He turned, and in the half darkness struck savagely—spurred by fear. She fell heavily. It was strange that so slight a woman should fall so heavily. The thud of her head against the wooden sofa-back seemed monstrous, unnaturally loud. She lay still, a thin grey moonbeam over her grey quiet face. Then, when he saw who it was, horror overmastered him.

".Grace!'.' he cried. He stopped and tried to lift her. She was inert, heavy. "Oh, my God!" he muttered. Black fear seized him. There was a noise upstairs, the hurry of footsteps. He 'rushed to the davenport, then recoiled. " Blood money— I can't!" he said. He was running through the garden the next minute. Miss -Grace Grenstead woke up in bed. It was The sun was at the window. She tried to think, but that was difficult. It was easier to lie quite still and rest. A nurse, in cool lavender and white, moved at the foot of< the bed. Why: A nurse .meant being ill, and she was not ill. Certainly she had no pain, only a tired feeling. \ Mona's hand had taken hers.

"Dear, my dear," she murmured. There were tears in her soft voice. Miss Grace Grenstead smiled at her, a brave, bright, gentle smile. . "Have I been ill?" Her voice quite surprised her; it was so faint, so curiously unbelonging to her. " What a lot of trouble I must have made." The words were not all connected —they came in tired little gasps of two or three. Then Mona melted away, and there were men in her xoom, three or four, very grave, very serious. Miss Grace Grenstead knew that some time must have elapsed. She had . dozed, she thought. She recognised the men with some v faint stirring of surprise. Dr James —he, was to be expected; but why 'Mr Greenhough her lawyer, and old Mr Whiteway, her neighbour? Another man stood behind with a notebook.

Dr James was speaking. " And Mr Whiteway is here to take your depositions." The concluding sentence broke upon her intelligence quits sharply. Her depositions! That meant—she gave a queer little sigh. That meant saying good-bye to Mona. But more—it meant more. She searched back, Vying to discover whether sne remembered anything of what Dr James had said before. Something about a prisoner. Ronald! " It—it is all a mistake.' The words came in a feeble protest. " I don't understand."

"My dear Miss Grace," said old Mr Whiteway, " a man was apprehended an hour ago. Mr Greenhough has identified him as—as a pensioner of yours. A second cousin, I understand—a Mr Ronald Jawing. He is accused of being the person who assaulted you." ■ " There was no assault—why should there be? I—l thought in the middle of the night that I had been very foolish"— she spoke with painful but persistent effort—" in leaving so much money in the davenport, and I went down—in the dark. I tripped and fell—in the drawing room." "But," said Mr Whiteway, "it is supposed that he came to steal, that you surprised him, and that after knocking you down he made off, too frightened l - " Then the money was safe! She realised that with a feeling of thankfulness. Safe —for Mona. "It was an accident. There was no man. Mr Orwing must be released." She repeated it several times very distinctly. Dr James interfered. The men were going. The patient must not be unduly excited.

"Mr Greenhoughl"

The old lawyer turned back. His eyes were misty. There was a cruel livid bruise on the thin, white cheek on the pillow. He was fascinated „by it. " Old friend," the words were whispered. " Mona must not know. You must promise tc keep—my secret. She believes that her father was a good man. It helps. He does not guess. He thinks his child died. He has never troubled to make any—any inquiries." " Miss Grace "

" No, no. Promise she must never know that Ronald is her father. Especially now." Miss Grace Grenstead did not know that she had given her other secret into the keeping of her old friend. 4- He—is—quite safe?" " You have saved him again," he said chokingly.

" Thank you. I am glad. Poor Ronald. Be very good to Mona." Then suddenly she snailed and looked up at the ceiling. "I am ready," she said.