SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3581, 31 October 1922, Page 66

SHORT STORIES.

AN UNKNOWN HEROINE.

By

W. A. MACKENZIE.

Ladv Oake came out of Spadini s School of Arms in Shaftesbury avenue and •walked smartly towards Piccadilly hircm. Her step was light and springy, her he -was held with more than its ordinary ai of defiance, and her heels tapped the pavement with a sharp decision that wa almost military. Under the black veil she wore two spots of red bllr “<- on her pale cheeks—the fires of pride, and her whole being glowed with the warmth of self-satisfaction. , , , , Spadini had just told her he could teach 'handle a revolver, madam, he had said, “better than any man who comes to mv room. At thirty P^ es ’ j { forty,'l shouldn't care to be the mark ot lu if were possible to your Browning. « we P inMt __ fix up a match with tnt well, madam, if he weren t at the.very too of his form. I know where I d put SJ money- And even “Do you mean that' Ur .-re wu ingit iltst because I am a miJ° You are a shir And there was respectful admiration in his voice. S P he paid Spadini’s fee with a light heart, and left the rooms where, for three months, and {our /Xmhther’selfto a JlSifS 4 eonL,„d hailed . tarlb* ««d K the chauffeur S h« «d,»d, ■£? B, Hung them out of the window. , the 2 a less absolutely impossible. 1 n T£ °cl,nchcd "heCi’end, »-n in ‘he lido™”: 'Then ijfw -nd le.ned h« head against the cushions and mained until the cab stopped. n Twelve o’clock L had been waTtinriWd away his cigarette. Sir? cteaii exceedingly well to the minute ” be said ‘‘lt m Sbe , sat S down, t and’ without looking at him. “Mind! I These S%ix er inthiS" yt-have pretty P crushed ah 33£lJt£SS. WVe^rSiher tragic, you know at c ‘" T lst J method ffSSS ,t “ielon. m«o SUS—a - thing,,” .ho -a What’s the good?'’ he laughed And then, noting the determined set of her features, Ob weil, d you want to jaw, fire away! It s your fight: it’s about all you get out of it. Onlv. for the love of goodness, cut it short! I’m lunching with a m» - Prince’s at one. and I cant run to tne boy” unless-the little envelope, you December.” began Lady Oake, “you came out of ~ “Alv pleasarft retreat in Devonshire. “Dartmoor, and on Christmas Day I had vour first letter.” “Wasn’t it a nice one? You must admit that much. Recalled the old days, poetised over the good times, rhapsodised over lost youth, sentimentalised over the times that were. Thought it rather sweet mvgelf. Anyhow, it took me two hours to plaster on the soft sawder. Fact!” “And you demanded a hundred pounds.” “Demanded ! How can vou be so brutal. Muriel ? Demanded! No, no, hinted gently that after five years odd months and days in retreat, a fellow would like to renew acquaintance with civilisation —• with London, in fact,—and that London without the ready was rather like the other place. Hinted, further, that a woman’s heart ought to he tender to the wrong doer, and that an old sweetheart might ” “You wanted a hundred. You got vi ur hundred, and another fifty with it.” “Don't forget the cheery, seasonable wish that I would betake mvself to another clime, retrieve my lost character, and generally behave like a little Sunday school l>oy. Sort of ‘ Here’s sixpence, run awav, sonnv, and he good.’ ” “The wish, the advice, was not meant in that way. I still believed in your better self—then. Now. perhaps, 1 ■would mean it. in (he other way : and T ought to sav it plainly before it is too late, for T know vou for what you are “A son of the horse-leech, who crieth, • give!’ No, mv dear Muriel, just a son of the earth who crieth, Live, live.’ Rut to live means money, and money ” “Is easily got bv blackmailing a woman.” “Call it blackmail, if you will, hut don’t call it easy. You’re jolly difficult to Meed, you know.” “Am T?” A little red Russia letter note hook came out. of her purse, and the pages flew under her fingers. “So difficult,” she went on, “that in February

you had anothe A iVndred and fifty, in March a hundred * riiat was to have been the last. And th en, in May, the menace —my letters, my Hd letters to you“Wait a minute * “Let me finish That produced two hundred. In July nother two hundred; in August a hundr and fifty—making up to date, just the t sand less fifty.” “Wonderful! Do it! all in your clever little head?” “And now you ” “Want five hundred, my dear- Muriel — five hundred of the best. And I’m going to get ’em, too.” “Are you?” “Yes, I am. Arid just to show you what a decent sort I am I shall let you have, for that five, all —you understand, all—those s;illv letters. I’ve made up my mind to try British Columbia. Baggage must be light, and I shan’t have room for sentimental literature. So you shall have them back at the price named. Of course, if you don’t want ’em, I dare say the dear, good jealous Sir Gilbert wouldn’t mind putting up a bid for ’em.” “I wonder do you realise what a cad you are? 7 ’ He laughed—a short, hard laugh. “Introspection’s not one of my weaknesses. Dartmoor has knocked all that chivalrous nonsense out of me, and stiffened my commercial fibre:. Oh, ves, my dear Muriel, I see tilings as they are, and not through the rosy spectacles of false sentiment. Cad? I dare say it’s as good a label as another. But the label I nrefer is—shall I say —dealer in autographs.” “Look 1 «re, Muriel; it’s no use quarrelling, no use, bandying words. I’ve got the whiphand of you, and I mean to keep it. I’ve got those letters of yours—silly, foolish, idiotic letters. You were married. You were misunderstood, like all married women. I listened to you, I sympathised with you. You were ready to do a bolt with me, and you said so —in writing. Another day or two, and I should have taken the tickets for Paris or Monte Carlo, or was it New York? But that nasty business about Selwyn Ellis’s cheque happened along, and I had to go kitchen gardening for his Majesty in Devonshire.” “But the letters remained, and the letters remain. And I’d be the biggest ass out of a barrow if I didn’t try to get something out o. them. Yes, I want five hundred this time, and you’re too solidly built in the upper storey not to see that you must : tumn up. So just hand over the envelope, and you 11 have your packet of letters by the first post tomorrow morning.” “And what guarantee, ' she spoke the words in slow syllables, “what guarantee have I that to-morrow morning I shall receive them—complete, all of them? ’ “The regularity of his Majesty’s mails guarantees ' the first, and my word the second.” “Your word ! Your word ! You cannot imagine me such a fool as to trust myself = to that. Oh, no! ) Bring me my letters and I’ll pay you.” “Bring them! Where?” “To Brinsley Square.” “When?” “To-night.” “And walk into seme pretty trap? ’ “Thanks.” “There will be no trap. Gil—my husband is going to Whitby this afternoon. I’ll see that the servants are out of the wav by- midnight, and I’ll let you in myself ; I shall be waiting for you at the door. Once I see that you have brought all my letters vou shall have the money, and not a moment earlier. If that doesn’t suit you,” she rose to her feet, “you can try and sell them to my husband.” And without waiting for his reply, she turned her back on him and walked rapidly away. She know that he would come. 11. The third quarter after midnight had scarcely ceased to vibrate when Lady Oake heard ’a light step mount the four steps to the door. A flutter of excitement stirred her pulses as she laid her hand on the huge silver knob and swung the door open. A dim light in the hall fell on the visitor’s face. “I knew you would come,” she whispered. The man was pale. He, too, was excited, for he feared a trap. He kept His right hand in the pocket of his loose overcoat, and his fingers were clutched tightly about a revolver. As he came m his eyes glanced swiftly to right, to left, and into the shadows at the back of the hall. “Then you're jolly clever,” he muttered. “I'or two pins, I’d ” “You’re afraid,” she said. "Aon re trembling—afraid of a woman.” ■‘Let’s get the thing over, confound you ! Here’s the bundle; where’s the cash?” She closed the door very softly, and put the chain in its place before answering. “I don’t buy a pig in a poke, Jimmy. We have plenty of time. Everybody’s in bed excepting me. I am not going to take that packet without examining it—it might contain nothing but old newspapers. ' He could not repress a cynical laugh. “Gad! you’re getting wise as you grow old—wise as the serpent. There’s no getting round you.” “Gome this way —to my boudoir. In silence he followed her, up the stairs to the first floor, then along a heavily carpeted corridor, and then into a little room hung with pale blue brocade and furnished in the trivial Louis Quinze manner —one of those cosv bonbon boxes where femininity loves to display its afternoon prettiness. Electric light shone softly from pink rose .amps sunk in the ceiling, and a log fire shed its pleasant warmth. “Charming kennel!” She closed the door and slipped the gilded bolt. He turned at the sound, and shivered. “Why bolt it?” Makes me think I’m number never-mind-what again.” She came and held out her hand. He tossed the packet into the fire. ‘I said you were wise as the serpent, and so you are, my dear Muriel. Cuttings

from the ’ Pink-Un,’ of no use to anyone but a collector of the curious in literature.” “Ah!” “But,” and he unbuttoned his overcoat, “ ’ere are the genuine articles, since you won’t let my little dodge come off. I suppose I may sit down?” “As you please.” * He sat down and undid the ribbon that bound the letters. Then he breathed deeply, as if assured that he was in security. “There are sixteen letters in all. I have arranged them—not chronologically, for they bear no dates, but according to what I may call, if you understand scientific terms, their varying degress of calorie. What? We begin with ’Dear. Mr Hope’ and the signature ‘ Muriel Oake—yours very’sincerely, Muriel Oake.’ That’s what we may call freezing point.” He tossed the letter across the table. “Your writing, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is mv writing.” “Another and another and another of the same.” She took them one by one. “Then we come to ‘ My dear Mr Hope,’ and ‘ever yours sincerely.’ Shall we say ten degrees?” She scrutinised each one with great care. “The temperature’s going up. ‘ Dear Jimmy,’ and ‘ Yours, Muriel,’ to be succeeded by ‘ Dear old Jimmv ’ and 'Thine, M.|! Have we got to thirty-five degrees by this time? And here we are now at ‘Darling Jim’ and ‘Your own Muriel’— sort of summer heat. What?” Ladv Oake was keeping fine control over herself. But for an occasional quiver of her nostrils she showed no emotion. One by one she took the letters, scanned them, and tore each into little bits, piling the pieces on the table. “How much did you say you had let me have? A thousand less fifty, was it? Well, now don’t you think you have got there full value for your money? I think so. Now here I’ve got the last five, what I may call the two hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit lot, and, upon my word, I’m letting you have them, cheap at a hundred apiece.” “Pass them over.” “Not so fast. ‘My own Jim ’ —yes, and ‘ My own dearest old Jimmy ’ —that would warm up the frigid Sir Gilbert—what?” “Pass them over.” “When I see the cash—not before.” Lady Oake turned pale. She gripped the arms of her chair and let her head fall back. “I’m too weak,” she muttered. “The money —the money •” “Well, the money.” He rose menacingly. “In there—there. ’ “Where?” “In the escritoire —by the window. “Where’s the key?” “It’s not locked—the right-hand drawer.” He turned and took a step (towards the elegant writing table. In that second she stretched out a hand towards . the five letters he had left lying unguarded. But he wheeled liko lightning, and just as her hand closed on them his hand fell on her wrist. “Oh, the clever Jezebel.” There was a moment’s struggle, and her hand opened. He took the letters out of her fingers, saw that he had the five, folded them, and placed them in an inside pocket. “They will be safer there, my dear Muriel,” he laughed. She sank back exhausted. “Much safer there. That’s how you would treat me! Bv Heaven! I don’t believe the notes are there at all. If they’re not—- —” “They are —they are. It was only my eagerness to have them back again—it was only that.” “We’ll see.” And he went straight to the escritoire. He pulled out the righthand drawer, and bent over it. “Fifty ten-pound notes,” she said. He turned over some papers, flung others to the floor, and, with a furious gesture, pulled out the drawer and emptied it on the floor. “They’re not here,” he growled hoarsely. “I must have been mistaken,” she said. “They are in the left-hand one.” He turned to the left-hand one. “Yes, they’re here.” He took out the bundle, held together with an elastic band, and began counting them. “Thirtv-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thir ’’ Sure of her aim. and with never a tremble or the fraction of a second’s hesitation, Lady Oake pulled the trigger. The report was no louder than the cracking of a nut. He flung up his hands and crumpled to the floor. Lady Oake crossed the room and bent over him. She slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his overcoat, and took out the five precious letters. She glanced over them, she tore them up, she added them, to the heap on the table, and then making a scoop of her two pretty white hands she gathered up the pieces and threw them on the- fire.” Then, stepping over him very carefully. she closed both drawers of the escritoire, and locked them with a key which dangled with twenty others at her chatelaine. Next she drew from the folds of her clinging gown a chisel, and with it succeeded in a few seconds in bursting open tile drawers she had just locked. She let the chisel drop to the floor. Finally she turned the dead man over, found his revolver, and laid it. beside his right hand. His left hand still clutched the notes. She picked nn her revolver, drew the holt of the door, and went out very quietly. Til another minute she was in the square blowing a police whistle. I IT. The newspapers made a. great deal of the Brinsley Square case. Lady Oake was the heroine of the. hour. Her portrait was everywhere, more or less badly printed, and her evidence at the inquest, given with what the Daily Looking Glass called

“Spartan calm,” was rendered in extenso. The moral leader-writers made the most of the terrible fate of Lieutenant James Spencer Hope, the Selwyn-Ellis cheque affair was raked up, the sentence to penal servitude, down to his awful end as a common thief. And Sir Gilbert Oake, the frigid Sir' Gilbert, began to experience a sneaking affection for his wife, whom everyone regarded ae a heroine. Perhaps everyone was right.