The Splendid Sacrifice

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 222, 8 December 1927, Page 5

The Splendid Sacrifice

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J.B. Harris-Burland.

Author of: “ The Half-Closed Door." “ The Black Moon," " The Felgate Taint ' " The Poison League." Ac.. Ac

CHAPTER VII. Continued Yet mingled with Mary’s sorrow, there was, not perhaps at first, but later on, a feeling of thankfulness that her mother had died before the name of Eden had been held up to the scorn and sneers of Mirchester. And during the days that followed the funeral, Mary made the most of this idea, clinging to it as a kind of refuge from her sorrow and regret. She spoke to Joan about it, but Joan only answered: ‘•l’d rather mother was still alive, even if she did know the truth.” Mrs. Eden’s property had not been at her disposal. She had only a life interest in the sum of six thousand pounds and the house. The money was now equally divided between the two daughters, and the house was left to Mary. “I should like to live in it," Mary said to her husband, "but I suppose that couldn’t be managed.” ‘lt might,” Britton replied. “This rectory is ridiculously large for us. I’ll see what the Bishop has to say about it.” The Bishop was sympathetic, but hard to persuade. It was probable that he would not have given in to anyone but Arthur Britton, whom he regarded with great affection. Ultimately he gave Britton permission to let the Rectory, on a yearly tenancy to be terminated at any time by three months’ notice, and Mary returned to the house and the garden that she loved. ‘‘l would not exchange it for Carne Court,” she said to her husband, as they sat over the fire in the little drawing-room. “Would you?” “Not I,” he laughed. “This is just about the right size for us.” They had moved into the cottage that very day, but for all the signs of the removal, they might have been there for years. The things had gradually been taken from one house to the other, and everything had been arranged so that they had taken no more luggage with them than a couple of trunks. The drawing-room had been turned into a study, and the walls were lined with books. The bigger room in the front of the house was to serve as both drawing and diningroom. They called it the “parlour” an old-fashioned name now fallen into low estate, but once used in the mansions of the greatest nobles in the land. They sat on either side of the fire those two, who seemed already to have found the perfect happiness of married life. Their meal was over, and had been cleared away from the little table in the centre of the room. Ouside the house roared a winter gale flinging the black twigs from the trees, and beating down the shrubs that were still green in the garden. The rain -was coming down in torrents, and the gurgle of it was pleasant in the pipes.

Mary, clothed in black, leant back in her chair, mending a pair of her husband’s socks. Britton smoked his pipe, and read the morning paper. He bad been too busy all day to look at “I feel,” said Mary, after a long silence only broken by the ticking of the clock, and the rustling of the paper, “as though I had never left home — as though I had always been here and you had just come to join me. I didn’t like the Rectory, Arthur. “Eight rooms in it shut up. lie replied with a smile. “Well, we have let it for a hundred and fifty pounds <l “What are we going to do with all our money?” Mary continued “We shall have more than a thousand a year now. I was wondering the other day if we could get along without Dick’s allowance.’ “It’s nothing to him, Mary. He can verv well spare it. There are so many people who are hard up. We can find nlentv of use for the money without spending a penny of it on ourselves.” Mary bent her head lower over the sock she was mending, as if the light were not very good. “I’d rather we gave it up, she said in a quiet voice. “I think it is so much

better to be quite independent, don’t you?” * Arthur Britton was silent for nearly a minute. Then he said, ‘‘There are so many people I want to help in the world. It is so difficult to get money for charity in this place. No one has any money to spare.” Mary drew the last thread through the patch in the sock, and took out the little wooden egg. ‘‘l leave everything in your hands, Arthur,” she said. “But you know how I love to be under no obligation, except to those I love.” “And you don't love Sir Richard, eh?” he laughed. “Well, you love Joan, and I suppose you’d take the money from her.” Mary rose from her chair, and seated

herself on the hearthrug, leaning against her husband’s knees. He stroked her soft, brown hair. He entirely sympathised with her desire to be under no obligation to Sir Richard Pynson. He had no particular regard for Sir Richard, though he did not actually dislike him. It seemed to him that Sir Richard wished Joan to see as little of her sister as possible. This had been brought home to him on one or two occasions. And he put it down to snobbery on Sir Richard’s part. Lady Pynson was certainly in a social sense far above the wife of a poor clergyman. And then Sir Rich-

ard was essentially a non-religious man even if he was not actually hostile to religion. And Sir Richard was a hard man, with no tenderness in his heart, except for the woman he loved. All these characteristics were distasteful to Arthur Britton, himself a truly religious man with wide sympathies and love for his fellow men. Yet the five hundred a year meant that there would be that amount of money at his disposal for distribution among the poor, and for many a little scheme that could be carried on for the good of the parish. Mary, on the other hand, desired, for reasons she could not explain to her husband, to refuse the allowance. She wanted to see Joan again, whenever she chose. She wanted, if the happiness of her married life was a stake, to tell the truth and throw herself upon her husband’s mercy. She wanted, in short, to be free. A battle lay before her, and she could not go further with her hands tied. She might have to fight not only for herself, but for Joan. She was uneasy about Joan’s future. She realised that Joan was still in love with this unknown “rotter.” Joan wanted moral help and guidance, and there was no one else in the world to help and guide her. She suddenly spoke with feverish energy. “I won’t take the money,” she said. “I won’t take another penny of it!” This sudden outburst, following so swiftly on the quiet conversation that

had preceded it, lifted a quiet discussion on domestic finance to a plane where there was nothing clear or certain but a strong motive for refusing the money—a motive much stronger and more definite than the mere desire to be free of an obligation to a broth er- in -law. Mary did not realise this until she had spoken the words, and had heard her thoughts proclaimed in a definite speech. She had suddenly placed herself in a dangerous position, where she would have to fight hard to keep her secret. Certainly if she had been dealing with Richard Pynson, she would have hardly been able to escape. But Arthur Britton was cast in a different mould. “My dearest,” he said, still stroking her hair, “if you feel so badly about it as all that, we won’t take the money. You don’t like Sir Richard, do you?” “I do not.” she answered calmly. She had herself well under control again. But she hated herself. This was the time to make a full confession, and yet she dared not make it. She was not thinking of herself but of her husband —of what this confession would mean to him. Of course, she ought never to have married him without telling him about that month’s imprisonment. She had taken a path that was strewn with rocks, and obstructed by masses of thorny, briars.

And she could not turn back. She simply could not tell her husband. He would not believe in her guilt. He would see at once that she had only sacrificed herself to save Joan. He might insist on the truth being told to Sir Richard Pj-nson. And that would be the end of Joan’s married life —at any rate, the end of all Joan’s possibility of happiness. “I don’t like Dick,” she continued after a pause. “And I don’t believe you like him either. I-low could you like him?” “He has been very kind to us,” Britton said gently. “But certainly it would not be right for us to take this money from a man you dislike. 5Ve

won’t discuss the matter any further, Mary.” He felt that he had put up a feeble fight on behalf of his poor. But Mary’s sudden outburst —her furious cry. “I won’t take the money—l won’t take a penny of it,” had completely taken him by surprise, and had disarmed him. It seemed to him as though his wife hated her brother-in-law, as though she would rather starve : take any more of his allowance. He i did not understand the cause of this hatred—did not question her on the matter. It was enough for him that : it was there —in her heart —no sudden ; flash of anger, but something that had i been there for a long time. _

“Thank you, dear,” Mary said in a low voice. Then she turned suddenly rose to her knees, and catching hold of her husband’s hand, burst into tears. “My dearest,” he said, stooping and taking her face between his hands, and kissing her on the lips, “you are ill—your mother —oh, you poor child.” He took her in his arms, and lifted her on to his knees. She laid her head against his shoulder and stared at the fire. It seemed to her that she had never quite realised her position un£il that moment —that she had never understood how wide and deep was the gulf that lay between her husband and a convicted thief. That she was innocent did not seem to matter at

all, for she could never proclaim her innocence. And some day—perhaps very soon—she would be face to face with disaster. She was not even sure now that her husband would refuse to believe in her guilt. But whatever happened, whatever he believed, there could be nothing but disaster. Her body trembled as Arthur Britton held her in his arms. And he, poor man, remembered that month in the nurs.ing home—that nervous breakdown after so many years of hard work. “Mary, old girl,” he said quietly, “you have been working too hard again.” (To be continued.)