THE TANGLED WEB

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19109, 30 June 1930, Page 16

THE TANGLED WEB

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By ELIZABETH YORK MILLER. Author of “ The Runaway Wife,” “ The Road That Led Home. “A Cinderella of Mayfair,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER X

[Copyright.]

It was now October again and the honeymoon in its third and last week, when Lady Pelburj’ awoke one morning to the prospect of a busy day. All of her activities were not frivolous, and on this particular date she had an honoured duty to fulfil in the matter of receiving Royalty at the hospital of whose board she was a leading light, and she was also pledged to attend a committee meeting for the organisation of a charity ball. There was, besides, a dressmaker’s appointment—which could be broken if necessary—and a visit to be paid to the hairdresser which certainly could not be broken, as well as lunch at the Ritz as the guest of an important colonial business man and his wife. So it happened that Angel was up early that morning and dressed for the first of her activities soon after her secretary arrived. The secretary was a fair-haired young man of ladylike manners who went by the rather sweet name of Cyril St Grys, the sort of young man to whom no husband ever seriously objects and whom every woman of Angela Pelbury’s type finds extremely useful. Mr St Grys was an expert at drawing social lists, a perfect secretary, and he also could tell to the fraction of an inch what was wrong with the set of a frock or the placing of a flower. Knowing what a busy day this was to be for his employer, Mr St Grys had prepared for it and when Lady Pelbury sailed into the little room where he kept himself and his typewriter and filing cabinets, he set before her the programme all neatly detailed, with the necesary memoranda and the little speech she was to make at the hospital function. Also, as was his custom, Mr St Grys had sorted out her correspondence and opened such of it as intuition instructed him was not personal. There were several picture postcards from Meriel with the usual scribbled banalities which this form of communication seems to invite, and Angel was glancing through them when Mr St Grys said : “ Here’s a- note from a dressmaker which, perhaps, you ought to see. It strikes me there’s something a little odd—a little pushing about it.” He handed over, not the usual card or smartly engraved announcement, but an ordinary and somewhat cheap double sheet of notepaper, pinkish mauve in colour, and unpleasantly scented. 10 Madden Street, Knightsbridge. October 15, 19— To the Countess of Pelbury, Your Respected Ladyship,—May I venture to solicit a visit from your ladyship to my small establishment at above address, where I have recently set up, as your patronage would be most useful to me. I can offer special terms for model gowns and I also make a study of the'full figure which stout ladies generally appreciate. Best attention guaranteed. Please refer to Mrs James Tremlett, your ladyship's niece, for all particulars. I feel sure that she will be pleased to recommend me and has also promised me her patronage. Awaiting your ladyship’s favourable reply for an appointment, I am, Yours respectfully, Madame Leonora. There was a glint of amusement in young Mr St Grys’ eyes which he carehid from his employer. But hadn’t he warned the dear soul over and over again that she was putting on too much flesh? Hadn’t he tried to persuade her to give up the wine and sweet foods she loved too well and go on a chop and pineapple diet? “ What impertinence! ” exclaimed Angel. “ I almost believe, Cyril, that you wrote this youcgelf.” She laughed in a half-vexed manner. “ Where on earth could Meriel have come in contact with such a* woman?” “ Madame Leonora may be a very good dressmaker,” Mr St Grys said, smothering his secret mirth. “ But I’m not so desperately stout as all that! Do you think it’s possible that Meriel could have told her such a thing?” “ My dear Lady Pelbury, I am always telling you, but you won’t believe me. These little things have a way of becoming public property.” “ You’re an impudent boy and I’ve spoiled you,” said Angel. “ The point is ” Mr St Grys ventured, “ that my sixth sense tells me this is a black-mailing screed. Take a whiff of the purple parchment. Its odour is not of the sanctity.” “Faugh! Burn the thing, Cyril.” But Mr St Grys did not destroy Madame Leonora’s invitation. He filed it away in his cabinet, remarking as he did so: “It won’t do any harm in here. Some day you may want to refer to it. Leonora may write to you again.” The incident was slight and in the usual way might have been forgotten, except that on that very afternoon, when it was still fresh in her mind, one of Lady Pelbury’s many small journeys led her through Madden-st. She was, in fact, on her way home at last, having struggled clear of the committee meeting at a quarter to six. Madden-st. being a favourite shortcut through Knightsbridge, there were several blocks, and in one of them Angel’s car was forced to stop opposite No 10, which had “Leonora” in great gold letters across the frontage. Angel peered out and then fumbled for her little lorgnette. Well, it looked to be a smart enough shop. That was rather a charming gown flung with cunning negligence over the silver tissue cushions. Madame Leonora’s manners might be at fault, but her establishment had a certain unmistakable cachet. “As Cyril says ” —mused Angel—- “ she may be a very good dressmaker. But she ought to be warned for her own sake not to write letters.” The car moved on and almost immediately Lady Pelbury forgot all about Madame Leonora’s curious bid for patronage. In fact considerably more than a year was to go by before the dressmaker was forced upon her attention again. A woman in Angel’s position was bound to be a target for that portion of the world of commerce which concerns itself with milady’s dress. Dozens of such solicitations passed from Mr St Grys’ hands daily into the waste-paper basket. What had impelled him to keep Madame Leonora’s must indeed be accredited to that sixth sense of which he boasted. CHAPTER XT. '' Meriel's baby was born the following summer, and it was thought by the sisters and by Angela Pelbury that it might have waited a little longer. Poor Merry, they said; she hadn’t had time to turn round before motherhood claimed her.

But Meriel didn’t mind. She was, in fact, almost unbearably conceited about having produced her little John so promptly, and according to her and Jim there never had been and never could be another such masterpiece in the way of infants. Still, it had been an anxious time, and although Meriel did not know it, herself, she had as nearly as not given her own life in exchange for little John’s, and the doctpr was very grave on the subject of the tender care which must be taken of her. Trust Jim and old Johnny Raynes for that. As soon as possible they carried her off to the seaside, and the petting and spoiling which had always been Meriel’s happy portion was, if possible, redoubled. Jim gave her a string of pearls as a small token of his gratitude for her great gift to him, and John set aside a handsome sum for his namesake. He had known at first sight that little John was going to be his favourite grandchild. If ever a baby was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, it was John Tremlett, for he possessed more than mere wealth. Even more than the ordinary young married couple, Jim and Meriel took their duties towards each other, and life itself, with great seriousness. Their love was so perfect, so almost holy that it inspired feelings of awe amongst kith and kin. Nobody had dreamed that Meriel, considering the curious way she had behaved before her marriage, would ever settle down so ideally. They had expected difficulties, little flares of temperament, and the men of the family had not altogether envied Jim the task of being Meriel’s husband. But Meriel surprised them all far more than she surprised herself. She had come so near to losing her happiness that she treasured it more than another type of woman might value her jewels. This miracle of miracles, her precious golden-haired little boy, would not be here except for the merciful intervention of fate on her behalf. She could never have loved a son of Eric’s as she loved little John, she told herself. Indeed, the very thought of such a- thing made her feel sick and faint. “ Oh, God has been good to me, * she whispered her face pressed against the fragrant sunny curls of her baby. To Jim she was a veritable Madonna and metaphorically he was at her feet. The months sped on and Meriel gained in health and strength while little John added to his weight and his accomplishments. There was never such a happy home as the little house in St John’s Wood. “ Merry-my-own, you’re too domestic,” said John Raynes one day in the following spring as he gently jogged the pram in which his grandson was reposing. They were out in the little garden where the lilacs and laburnum trees were in full bloom and a border of gay tulips fringed the old brick wall. A table had been laid for tea and -while they waited for Jim to come home Meriel was occupying herself with a bit of fine needlework. “But I like being domestic,” she protested blithely. “ Aren’t you pleased with me, Daddy?” “ I’m not,going to flatter you, you spoiled chit,” said John. “ It’s all too good to be true. There must be a fiy in the ointment somewhere.” A faint shadow passed over Meriel's

face and her hands rested idly for a moment. “There probably is—” she said in a sobered voice—” but I hope none of us will ever find it.” And then out came the smart parlourmaid with two envelopes on a tray. “Oh, here’s a letter from Julia!” exclaimed Meriel. She tore it open before glancing at the other, for there had been some anxiety lately in the Bentley household, one of the twins having fallen downstairs and broken a leg. She read Julia’s letter aloud and the news was reassuring. Little Doris it seemed was progressing quite favourably, and the fear of complications had passed. John Raynes picked up the book he liad been reading, and Meriel looked doubtfully at the second envelope. It was mauve and while the handwriting was fair enough it suggested that of & semi-educated person, or one who was unaccustomed to a great deal of correspondence. And even out here with the fragrance of the lilacs scenting the air, one could detect a musky smell as of cheap perfume emanating from the stationery. Meriel opened it and glanced at the signature, and as she did so it seemed to her that a cold breeze swept over the garden. But there was no breeze, riot enough to stir the lilacs, and the sun shone hotly. Furtively she threw a look at her father, but he was engrossed in his novel. 10 Madden Street, Knightsbridge. May 6, 19 —. Mrs James Tremlett. Madam. No doubt you will recall me as Miss L. Begby on the occasion of your coming to Folkestone to marry poor Captain Saunders, and promising that I could send you a card if I ever set up in London, which I have done two years ago. I take the liberty of writing now to request the favour of your patronage which I did the same some time ago to your aunt, the Countess of Pelbury, making free use of your name as a reference. Her ladyship never answered or took any notice and I would esteem it a knidness on your part, madam, if you could persuade her ladyship to pay me a call. You know what titles mean in a business like mine, and my shop has not been doing so well lately as I could wish. A big order from you would help me a lot just now and I would be glad to offer you special prices for cash payment. If you could see your way to looking in at the above address and giving me an order up to a hundred pounds or so it might tide me over. I will make the same low terms to her ladyship or any other lady you could recommend me to for cash. Trusting you will pardon my writing to you like this, since in the circumstances I feel I have a small claim upon your consideration. Respectfully Yours, Leonora Begb}’. (Trading as Mme. Leonora.) A fine bead of perspiration appeared on Meriel’s lips and she felt herself growing so faint that it took a determined effort not to lapse into unconsciousness. In one reading she seemed to have mastered every word of that screed by heart. There was undeniably a threat in it. But a threat of what? As far as the Begby girl ccmld know, Jim and everybody else concerned had been told of that Folkestone escapade.

(To be Continued.)