THE CRASH

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 19, 10 May 1911, Page 55

THE CRASH

By

ALFRED JUDD.

C~TY WOODEN-FACED satyr which / I helped to support the mantel board yl in the blue-and-white drawing room leered down upon the fair figure in the shimmering silk. Presently having eruinpled the flimsy paper which she held, the woman lifted her eyes. The Pan-face eaught her glance and held it. The derision in the grin was poignant'. She swept to her feet, her cheeks glowing. her.eyes ablaze.

"Oh, that some power were given me to show my mettle! I must do something, I must-—I will. I—l know now that I have come to hate him. Women are such futile creatures.” She laughed at that, trying to twist her laugh to the mood of the satyr. “They fret and chafe beneath continued slights, but they do nothing to utterly resent them—nothing, nothing, nothing! Elbowed aside—jostled out of life for two whole years.” Her lips quivered. "Why—why should he treat me so? Can it—? It is not—?”

Gathering her dress, sire moved with something of eagerness to a full-length panel of.silvered glass. She paused erect, motionless, seeking an answer to her question. • • - - The bevelled panel was but half faithful in its witness; yet it could not *aJl to. satisfy. In this whispering ballgown of the palest amber Mary Millard was a queen fn her own right. Almost, it was grace unassisted. Her gleaming hair, dressed low to the neck, had no embellishments: she wore one jewel at the most, and no Howers whatever. She turned back to the chair, spreading out the hateful telegram once more before destroying it altogether. Not one word of regret nor even of apology—just the blunt, uncaring message: — “You must give up all thought's of Mrs. Ardath’s ball. I cannot get baek tonight.—Geoffrey.” <•

And then, because she was a woman, and a "futile creature,” she found that she needs must try. This dud not last long, however; she would not-let it—for she said, as she forcibly stifled her sobs, that she had nothing to ery for. Geoffrey Millard, her husband only in name, had wearied of her so completely that for the last two years ■he had almost shunned her. Was that a matter for tears? Was it for her, the courted Mary Iddesleigh of two seasons, -to bewail the loss of any man’s regard? Where was her treasured pride? Shejiad been overlooked long enough, and now, come what might, she would show her spirit. Show her spirit! How easily saidhow perplexing to .achieve! She knew very well that throughout all these humiliating months she had never really known a want of spirit; indeed, it was latent dignity alone which had held tier from taxing the offender With his patent neglect , and coolness? No, it was not the spirit that was lacking; it was the opportunity. And the opportunity to-n’ght seemed as far from her as ever. The wife’s was the bitter portion m these ill-judged affairs. The man could tarry his pleasure, and depart at the same; but the woman —the woman must always stay. Such thoughts were maddening fare. They drove her to the recesses of her memory, so that- she might define her error-preoise-ly. There had been so many knights-at-arms—yes, very many from first to last. Her choice had been at fault; where should it have' rested? Perhaps—. Then she started. For there had been a rattle at' the easement, and she glanced up to find a man’s figure in the open wiiidow.-spaee. "Why, what is the meaning of this?” a voice inquired. “May I come in?” A swift tremour of emotion prevented instant speech. Presently, however, she arose slowiy.

"Yes—yes,” she faltered; “yes, of course; come in.”

Dick Bourne came in', bringing with hhi; that easy smile which, whether cultivated or natural, suited his fine dark lineaments uncommonly well. Dick Bonrne—the only son of a wealthy, influential ‘house, and still admitted, at thiyt'y-fivc, to be tiles', most; graceful amateur bat in all the playing counties. "I’ve come from Mrs. Ardath’s,” he explained, walking up to the hearth. "Not

officially—rather on my own account I knew you were invited, of course, and I couldn't comprehend your non-appear-anee. However, 1 see you are about to start.” /

“No —no; I—l’ve had a wire from Geoffrey. I had dressed before it arrived. He —he is kept in town.” “In town!” echoed the other; “oh, that’s too bad! Even if he wasn't keen himself, Geoff might have made an effort. I mean —well, he might have thought of you.” The outburst’ sounded so genuine, the words themselves so propitious, that the aehing spot was touched at once. She tried to reply, but her lips trembled, and she was obliged presently to turn away.

■Bourne was beside her in an instant*. “Mary—what is it? There is something more, I am sure. Won’t —won’t you explain?” “No, no—l can’t. Indeed—no;there is nothing.” The strained tone of the denial advised the man it were better he did not speak; that more would appear if he kept silent. It was rightly judged. She sank into a chair and covered her face in her hands. "Oh, Diek,” she sobbed, “I am miserable to desperation!” He bent over her. "You will tell me?” he suggested gently.

She drew down her arms presently and rested them across the padded arm of the chair.

“I should like—yes, I will see whit you thiink. Sit' down, Dick.” He sat down, and she lifted her fan from where she had dropped it on the floor. As she spoke she fingered its folds slowly. “T.ell me, during the last eighteen months, have you—have yon noticed an alteration in Geoffrey?” • “An alteration!” he mused, with caution. "In—in what respect, precisely?” "Has his manner seemed indifferent?” "You mean —forgive me—you mean towards yourself?”

She inclined her head. There was a moment’s silence. Then—“I’m afraid.” he said slowly, “that I have observed it; I—l have been compelled to notice it.”

She Hushed. "There was no room left tor me to doubt it, of course, but it helps me to know that the thing was plain to other people as well.”

After that she tilted her chin, and the pride of the Iddesleighs spoke. “Geoffrey is changed towards me—l have come to be a burden to him. I first noticed the falling off quite two years ago. It has grown worse and worse until I, see, only too plainly, that our marriage was a distressing mistake. But he has never hinted as much openly. I used to think —and, indeed, still think—-

that he is naturally considerate. .1 will do him justice of believing that -in this luckless affair he is almost as sorry (or me as he is for himself. "Now and then,” she continued, “there have been spells of laboured kindness—set attempts to be cheerful towards me. But of late even these little displays have halted.” She closed the fan deliberately and pressed it tightly together. “I cannot be an encumbrance any longer. I ean’t —I won’t!” The man’s pulses were racing, but his looks betrayed nothing. “You have plans?” he asked. She laughed a little wearily.

“Plans? No, no —I am afraid not—that is, not as men have plans. 1 only know that I am bent on relieving Geoffrey of an irksome companionship—somehow.”

“That is really the point—your mind is quite made up?” “Quite. You cannot blame me—oh, indeed, you wouldn’t if y*ou could dimly guess what the last twelve months have lieen to me. He—he has even, on the thinnest pretence, stinted my allowance, and has eome to look askance on some of the most ordinary expenditure of tho house. Last year we did not go to town at all, and I was barely consulted. His presence here is restricted practically to week-ends—which sometimes means just a few hours on Sunday. Why—oh, why should I put up with it?”

She rustled from her chair as she spoke, pausing at the other side of tho hearth, her form half-turned, her should; er towards him. The man's eyes were hungry with the admiration he no longer tried to conceal. He arose too.

“If you are ever to follow up your ■’eeision,”' he told her, “ you must do

so at once.'* You must leave here tonight.” • “Leave—here —to-night! ” She voiced the words as though they half-frightened her. “Remember I will not go to my friends nor appeal to them in any way. I won’t be made an object of pity’. 1 won’t be glinted at and whispered about. I must go away from everywhere.” “Yes —but not alone.” Some inflexion in his tone made her wheel about quickly. He stood quietly apart from her, just as he had risen from his chair. "But not alone,” he. said again. “Listen carefully, now, Mary. We are old friends, you and I—our fellowship dates from many years before you bad even spoken to Millard. Tell me- was not that whv you confided iu me tonight?” “Yes; I——” “Wait. You admit that your union with Millard has turned out miserably —has proved a failure. Because of which you seem to have some vague purpose of going forthwith into exile. Such thoughts are an outrage on Nature. It must not be. Whatever you have gone through, to me.you are stiH the most beautiful creature on God’s earth. The love I had towards you in the old days has come to be increased tenfold. I say it unashamed, and I want you to listen with your heart. Remember, you are Luing a lifecrisis, .and yopr decision in this must turn the scales between life long happi-

ness and misery. If you win let ma, I will give you all the content that jife and' love eAn render. And I speak. Hot as’ a'pdaser-by. but as ymir trusted friend and your lover indeed.” He had delivered it convincingly, with studied pauses. And now he stood mo-tionless-awaiting sqme sign. At length she lilted her eyes as in questioning wonder, and her hands unlinked, wavered, groped. Then he had caught them gently, to hold -them firmly. She felt her drooping forvA. drawn towards, him. and her head'sank upon his shoulder. .There, trembling, she sobbed her way through devious paths. ... . “Mary,”, he breathed at length, with such quality of tenderness as perhaps she had never heard before?“come —and be happy!” She ceased sobbing, she did not speak, but she listened to him further. . ; "One needs time, Dick—time to think.” "You have had time, Mary—two years. Can it be that you have never thought of this solution?” "Never—never once.”

"Ami so it frightens you. But do not let it. Consider all that 1 have said. Eyen the world must understand—must see the right of it—in time. At--this moment, in. the most destitute sense of the word, you are alone and neglected. me give you my protection at once - —to-night. .Do you still hesitate?” "I wish I could see that it were beet for us both. I cannot forget that you are offering—for a time, at least—to eut yourself off ” "Mary, I want your love—have always desired it far beyond everything else. To win you I would risk”—lie took a deeper breath —“I would risk, honour itself . , , There, then it is settled,” He led her gently to a seat, briefly explaining that his ear was at Mrs. Ardath’s. "I will fetch it at once and be. with you. again within half an hour. You will be ready?” She made assent; after which he drew away, walked lightly across the room, and passed through the open window.

For a while she remained as he had left her—sitting in the strange new quiet of the house; then, impatient with thought, she sprang to her feet. Her glance lingered at the mantelshelf. There was a photograph there of herself, taken many years ago, but which (jepffrey had once professed to like, an<l’ha*d insisted on having displayed. Pulling the portrait from its frame, she tore it in half and cast aside the fragments. Scarcely had she done so before a new step at the window caused her to turn about. "Geoffrey!” she cried aloud, and her heart stood still. The amazement called for by her husband’s unexpected presence was overruled. at onee by the shock which his aspect occasioned. Something deathlike was crouching upon his features as he stalked brokenly up the room and sank into a chair. Mechanically - he hgd removed his hat, and he dropped it listlessly from him. His ashen features, the blank in his eyes as he looked at'her, brought her to his side ‘at once. -■ “Geoffrey, what is it—what is it? Ob, tell me —what has happened?” ? He. fumbled for her hands. • "It has come,” he whispered-—“ft has eome at last.” "Come!” she echoed ; “oh Geo.ft- —why do you look like that? What has eome?’ "The crash.” . "The crash!” “Millard’s has failed.” "Millard’s failed!” A strange light—.something almost furtively hopeful — stole into her waiting eyes. “Oh, Geoff —tell me everything! Have —have you expected this? How long has it been looming?” “For more than two years —that is, for a lifetime; my God—it means that to me!” The man-shuddered, passing his band before his eyes. “A little longer, Mary, and it would have killed me. To me the crash must come as a relief, but to you.-—ah, my dear girl," he broke off, in a sudden sway of passion—"can you ever forgive me?” "Forgive you?” “Yes, yes —for bringing you such new’s as this. Under heaven I have done my utmost to avert it—to fight it back —and always for your sake. Every hour of my life, for two years, has been devoted to ■the task. I have fought always; jealojis even of sleep, doing the work of clerks to reduce staff-outlay—thinking, scheming, working. Oh, Mary—believe me in this!’ 1 • • • "I d«, Geoff —I do!” I “Both by birth and person you merit wealth and position, and in marrying jou I believed that I could give them to

y»u. I have alwaya loved you dearly, •a you know, and throughout thia trouble I have never uttered a word to you. hoping that by sheer personal effort I might tide over a passage perilous, and so win a new foothold without having diaturlied your peace of mind. But the odd* have bested me at last—Millard’s has gone under!** “Geoff, you should have told me—you should have told me!” she cried. “As for that,” he said, with the ghost of a fleeting smile, “1 am sure 1 have come to lie lean company of late, and really it was a miracle that you never guessed that something was amiss. 1 wanted most to keep a cheerful countenance with you, and with you it was always hardest. You—Mary, surely you must have noticed a difference! When I have hinted at economies here, you—surely you must have dimly guessed?" She placed her hands on his either shoulder.

“Oh, Geoff—forgive me!—l didn't quite believe you! 1 thought you were spending more on yourself—on those Other mysterious affairs which so constantly kept you in town! I have wronged you in everything, and I hate myself for it, but ”

Her arms were about his neck before he could reply; her gladdened, shining eyes were near to his own.

“Geoff, Geoff—don’t talk of ruin; this, surely, it is the sweetest night of alt! I thought I had lost your love, but. now I understand, I feel almost too happy for words! You are sot tired of me. Geoff? Tell me—let me hear you say it!”

“Tired of you!” He drew her to him •nd kissed her lips with an ardour unmistakable. "My dear child, but for the thought of you 1 should have been routed long ago. And. if you will let me, the rest of the fighting shall be done for your sake—for yours alone.” Her lips answered the avowal, and for

* few moments all was silent in the blue-and-white drawing room. Only the carven satyrs ogled each other across the hearth space, as though gloating in their foreknowledge of ’ronHe yet to come.

*sNow,” said the woman at length—“let us be humdrum and sensible. Tell are how it all came about—how it all began.”

“In a few words. Mary, if I can. Millard’s has never been its old self since the founding of the Gold Cross lane, some four years ago. Their routes were practically the same as ours, their erafts finer, the rates competitive. The Line was established on American money—•nd plenty of it.

“Three years ago I received a fetter proposing an amalgamation of the two Lines, and offering me. if it could satisfactorily be brought about, the managership on this side of the wCer. Throughout this affair 1 have made two palpable mistakes —and the first was in despising this suggestion. Millard's, you see, had become such an institution with me. Sitting in our ancient, decorous old office—with my forbears in their steel engravings looking on —this proposition came before me almost as nn affront. My refusal. I am thoroughly aware, was couched in aggressively indignant terms. The Gold Cross people did not retort in words —but their reoly was emphatic for all that.

“Three big ships were laun -tied one after another. Further big designs were pud on the stocks—an<j Millard’s, quickly enough now. were left severely behind. IVe suffered, too, from being virtually a private concern Still, we beat up our •landing funds almost to the list hundred and hastened to build as well. But ths lost place was never regained, and a

year ago, I knew that any hope of hrairy was past. “1 changed my tactics then. If Millard’s could no longer be princes in their following, they might yet succeed in some lesser form of shipping. I believed there was room for a purely emigrant service, with one moderate rate—abolishing the old form of 'steerage.' But we were at a low ebb, and the necessary adaptations on existing boats would cost at least fifteen thousand pounds. Unfortunately. tlie terms of the inheritance prevented me from making Millard’s a limited company, and there were reasons why 1 shrank from borrowing through customary channels. “That was a year ago, and Millard’s was on the very brink of winding up. Would that it had. for something more would have been realised, and the present desperate pass would never have been arrived at! However, that fifteen thousand loan was forthcoming from a friend. “The offer was made with solicitous haste, and accepted quite as a friendly advance. Nothing was said even about ordinary interest, and I understood that the money was at my indefinite disposal. No signed stipulations were asked for, and I did not press for them—making thereby, my second glaring error. For, three months later, full repayment of the loan was demanded—urged for! “That is really all I need tell you, Mary—the last floundering nine months present a petty story and would take more telling than I have the heart for. We are now a wreck, and the salvage is yet an unknown quantity. Shelving my remnants of pride, 1 wrote the Gold Cross people yesterday, offering them my services. 1 asked for an immediate interview- 1 was thinking of you, Mary. With the news of the disaster I wanted to bring you some ray of hope as well. There was no reply, however, and I sent you that wire—being determined to lin-

ger in town for another morning’s post. Their answer, however, turned up soon afterwards—merely giving me an appointment for to-morrow. There was nothing to stay in town for then. I lurnea lor the last train and came here.”

The -woman had listened with rapt attention to every word of the recital. “And now,” she said, “do I know everything? You have really told me the worst ?”

“Why, yes —and isn’t it enough? My dear girl, it is brave of you to adopt a cheerful tone; but think what it all means. This house must go! All the old ”

“Aud when it is all gone, when everything has vanished, I shall still have you, Geoff —and you will still have me!" She laughed aloud at her simple vision. “Think of that and smile, Geoff—oh, do smile! That’s better Geoff, don’t you remember when first we were married, we used to make all sorts of shameless excuses to avoid other people’s functions, so that we might be at home together? It will -be like that again now. Only think of it! Cosy ehats, and card games for two. Bezique!” She sprang to her feet, her eyes aglow. “Why, Geoff, Ido declare well pla ’ '-zique tonight!”

He was compelled to laugh at her humour.

“Oh, very welt!” he declared; “you find me. ready. It shall lie a preface to the friendless days ahead—h’m, friendleas?" he added—“scarcely that, I hope; I won’t think quite so badly of the world. But there is just one of our present intimates who is scarcely likely to be the same.**

“Who, I wonder?” “The man who made me that loan, and pressed almost instantly for its return. There was nd disastrous quarrel between us. but, now that the crash has come, 1 imagine a certain coolness will arise.” _

“Who was it, Geoff?” "The name will surprise you. Dick Bourne.”

The woman's cheeks blanched, and she caught at the table for support. The utterance of the name bridged fully the hiatus of her husband's coming, and forced back toNier senses the event which had immediately preceded it. The other did not notice her pallor; he was looking straight before him, and was musing.

“I can’t make out Bourne’s attitude in the matter at all. He is rich; he did not need the money actually—of that I am certain. It almost seemed as though he were deliberately trying to cripple me more. That, of course, is absurd—he could have had no such purpose. Yet he must have seen, when be came here, what his action meant: bow it increased my preoccupation in town —a pre-occupation which was

putting a barrier between us —between you and I. That alone might have given him pause. Or hullo; why, what is this, Maryt” Stooping quickly, he plucked from the tiles two ragged pieces of gilt-edged card. Then he glanced swiftly at the mantel-board.

“Your portrait, Mary! Why, who did this? I—I—”

He came slowly to his feet, watching the fear in her eyes—wondering what it could mean.

And as they stood thus there was a running crackle on the gravel without,

the muffled grazing of a brake—and then approaching footsteps. Still they did not move. A near voice, hastily beginning to speak, fell on their ears. “Are you ready, Mary? I’m sorry I’ve been so long, but the ”

Dick Bourne was well into the room by then, and was face to face with Millard. An age-long moment went by; then Bourne—after a darted glance at Mary—made a valiant effort. There was a greyness at the corners of his mouth, but he spoke collectedly. “Why, Millard,” he said, “so you’ve come back after all!” “Yes—after all.’ “Mary told you of my call here—eh ?” This was the dangerous ground. “No—she didn’t mention it.” “I thought to have seen you both at Fletchley. you know, and ‘'•geons thing!—.l actually stole ri_ ty to see what was amiss. 1 lo—. Mary ready, but heard that you were kept in town. So I thought—we’re such old friends, you know—l thought I might venture to be her escort between here and Mrs. Ardath’s. I’ve brought around my car. Perhaps you will make an effort and come yourself. Eh?** “No, I won’t eotne; but Mary might still accompany you if she is so inclined. Indeed”—he halted an instant to turn his direct glance towards his wife—“iu the circumstances, I think it would be the best arrangement.”

She ventured one swift, asking look, and then her eyes fell before his. She saw that Bourne's fiction had not deceived him; she knew that he knew. The blood rushed np into her cheeks, to fall W swiftly m it arose.

“Your nnawerF* suggested Millard. “I—l will stay here with you, Geoff •

"Ave you certain, Maryt”—the deepest meaning stirred 1U his voice now. “Uiiderstaud that 1 wish you honestly to choose. I know your tastes; I appreciate your longings. If your heart ia already there, it is far, far better that you should go with Bourne to—to Mrs. Ardath’s than that you should set yourself to suffer the dulness of bezique with me. You must choose as your heart dicta tea,” ■

Her form trembled almve the haul which rested upon the table. Kite tried with deep, quick breaths to regain her power of speech, but the power refused its office. Then she raised her entreating looks, and her lipa formed a whisper scarcely heard:

“Geoff, have pity! Oh, Geoff, Geoff —• have pity!” Millard, taking a swift step forward, gathered her in his arms. With a kindling eye he turned towards the man by the window. “I think, Bourne,” he said steadily, “that bezique has really won!”