The Joy of Living
Copyright 191S by Sidney Qowlng
*By
Sidney Gowing
Illustrations by
ELLSWORTH YOUNG
COUSIN ALICK
SYNOPSIS.—Disliking the pros
pect of a month’s visit to her aus
tere aunt. Lady Erythea Lambe,
at Jervaulx abbey, and her cousin,
Alexander Lambe. Aimee. vivacious
daughter of the Very Reverend
Viscount Scroope, meets a young
man who laughingly introduces
himself as "Billy," American. The
two ride on his motorcycle, the
"Flying Sphinx," and part. With
Georgina Berners, her cousin, Aimee
sets out for Jervaulx. She forces
Georgina to impersonate her at
Jervaulx, and she goes on a holi
day. Aimee again meets Billy. He
tells her his name is Spencer, and
she gives hers as Amy Snookes, at
present "out of a job.” Billy offers
to take her into partnership in sell
ing the Sphinx. In a spirit of mad
cap adventure, she accepts. The
two proceed to the town of Stan
hoe, taking separate lodgings in
Ivy cottage. While Aimee is se
cretly visiting Georgina at Jer
vaulx, the place is burglarized, and
the famous Lambe emeralds are
stolen. Aimee escapes. Police de
cide the thieves are "Jack the
Climber” and “Calamity Kate,”
who travel on a motorcycle. Billy,
w'ho has shadowed Aimee to Jer
vaulx, follows the thieves. He is
knocked out, but emerges from the
fight with the Lambe emeralds.
He meets Aimee, with the police
in pursuit. In a secure hiding place,
a cave among the crag pits, Aimee
tells him the whole story. He urges
her that she make a frank confes
sion to her father, but on reflec
tion both realize Aimee’s good
name has been compromised. As
suring Aimee he has a plan to save
her. Billy leaves her in the cave
and, proceeding to Jervaulx. re
stores the emeralds to the astound
ed Lady Erythea. Billy tells a
story that satisfies the police, re
fuses a reward and accepts a
chauffeur's Job from Lady Erythea.
Aimee gets the place of parlor
maid at Jervaulx.
CHAPTER XV—Continued.
“Ladies,” he said gravely, “Miss
Amy Snooks. Late of Scroope Tow
ers.” And took his leave.
Aimee said “good-evening” shyly,
and seated herself. It occurred to her
that she had never seen so many plain
women gathered at one table. With
the exception of the cook, they were
all angular and scraggy. Pulling her
self together with an effort, Aimee
took a generous mouthful from a slice
of thick bread and butter. The fewer
words the better, until she knew her
ground. She seemed to detect an air
of faint hostility in the others.
“What's the feedin' like at Scroope?”
asked an elderly housemaid opposite
her. in a hollow voice.
“They fare pretty good.” said Aimee,
with her mouth full of bread and but
ter, “but the place 13 dull. I been at
home some time."
“Ton won’t be 'ere long," said the
pageboy regretfully, neglecting ills tea
to stare at her.
“Why not?” said Aimee with some
pertness.
“You're a sight too good-lookin’,” re
plied the page gloomily.
“Albert 1” said the cook with aus
terity, “pass this cup o’ tea an’ don’t
talk rubbish !’’
Aimee took refuge behind her stone
ware teacup. She was aware of a
crossfire of glances, so sour and side
long, that the very milk seemed to
curdle In sympathy.
*******
The morning sun, full of the prom
ise of a fair day, shone through the
windows of the long drawing room.
Aimee, in a snow-white cap and apron,
was wielding a feather brush among
priceless knick-knacks. Her manner
of dusting wns desultory.
“I wonder how long I can stick it?”
she murmured in despondent tones. A
Watteau shepherdess escaped destruc
tion by a miracle.
“In all my life I never saw such a
lot of frumps. And the taste it leaves
in one’s mouth—it’s awful. It’s all
very well sitting tight and spying
nothing. I shall break out—I know I
shall, unless I can see Billy soon.”
Slie observed a large photograph of
the Rev. and Hon. Alexander Lambe,
in an ornate silver frame, standing on
a table. Aimee recognized the por
trait, and flicked at it viciously with
the feather brush. She miscalculated,
the portrait crashed on to the floor.
When she picked it up the glass was
Dtiui ctri cu.
“That’s torn it. All breakages come
off my wages. I wish It had been his
silly face!”
At that moment Miss Georgina Ber
ners entered by one of the French win
dows. She was aware of a slimmer and
more youthful figure than any she had
yet seen In the household. Georgina
made a point of always being civil to
her hostess’ servants.
“Are you the new parlor maid?” she
said amiably.
Aimce turned and faced her.
“Hullo, Georgie!” she exclaimed.
Georgina, during the last three days,
had suffered more than any placid soul
should be called upon to endure. She
stared wildly for a moment at the slim
form in the cap and apron. Georgina
had arrived at the breaking-point. She
collapsed backwards Into nn arm
chair; a series of shrill whoops came
from her; her hands beat>t$ie air.
“Georgina!” cried her cousin in a
panic. Tor pity’s sake don’t do that
You’ll give the whole show away 1”
“Honk! Honk ! Honk!” said Georg
ina.
Aimee had once heard a physician
declare that sympathy and kindness
merely made hysterics worse. It was
time to change the treatment. She
grabbed her cousin by the shoulders.
“Shut up that beastly row 1” said
Aimee fiercely, shaking her till her
teeth rattled. “Stop it 1 Do you want
to get me handcuffed and put in the
cells? Idiot!”
Georgina gasped, choked, and sat
up. She clung to her cousin desper
ately.
"I will be quiet. I will," she said
faintly. “Wh-wha-what does it mean,
Aimee? Why—?”
“Try to behave like a reasonable be
ing, and I’ll tell you.”
“Yes, yes! I’m better now, dear."
Aimee inspected her and, Judging
the danger to be past, kissed her af
fectionately. After a cautious glance
at the windows she proceeded, as Billy
would have phrased it, to put her
cousin wise.
Georgina, having heard her to the
end, pressed both hands pathetically
to the sides of her head.
“And—you're living in the servants’
hall?” she said feebly.
“It’s no catch, I can tell you,
Georgie. But one mustn’t grumble.
Billy’s living at the garage—in a green
uniform with brass buttons.”
“That—that extraordinarily good
looking young chauffeur?” said Georg
ina, staring at her. “Then he is—”
“Now don’t get sentimental,” said
Aimee warningly. “Yes, he is not bad
looking, is he? Billy's great. If it
hadn’t been for him—” she checked
herself. “Don’t you see what an ex
cellent arrangement it is, my being
here—in spite of the little draw
backs?”
Georgina gave a sigh—positively of
relief.
“It’s better than having you wan
dering about the country, getting into
all sorts of horrible scrapes. It will
have to come out soon, and then Lady
Erytliea—”
“Yes, yes. Never mind Aunt. What
I want you to do, Georgie, is this—oh,
bother! Look out!”
Aimee seized her brush and, darting
to the sideboard, began dusting busily.
A step was hear<} on the gravel, and
Mr. Alexander Lambe entered by the
window.
“Cousin Aimee, you are looking
pale,” he said in tones of concern. “It
is delightful out of doors, the air is
so balmy. Shall we—er—take a little
walk in the rose—”
Alexander stopped short, and his
features froze. H« had caught sight
V
Aimee Flourished the Feather Brush
in His Face.
of Almee’s face, with the light full
upon it, reflected in the mirror before
her. He stared for a moment with
remarkable Intentness.
“Who is this?” he said sharply, step
ping towards her. There was menace
in his voice. “Who are you?”
Aimee, preparing to meet her des
tiny, turned composedly and faced
him. She dropped him a small curtsey.
“Please sir, the parlor maid,” she
said.
Mr. Lambe’s eyes were nearly start
ing out of his head.
“Parlor maid? You?” he said stern
ly. “You are the woman who drove
thsrffmotorcycle. I could vouch for
y^gtfnnywhere. You are”—he shot the
wWds out with extraordinary ve
hemence—“you are that abandoned
creature, Calamity Kate! You are the
woman who knocked me down!”
With unexpected agility he sprang
forward and seized Aimee by the
wrist. And with equal deftness she
wrenched herself free.
“Am I?" she said fiercely. “Then
keep your hands off me, or I’ll do it
again. Do you heftr me?”
Aimee, thoroughly roused, flourished
the feather brush in his face. Mr.
Lambe started back, a little pale. He
placed Ills thumb on the bell-push.
“Almee,” he said sharply, “go out—
go out quickly! I will deal with her.”
“What are you going to do?” gasped
Georgina. Instead of obeying him she
came forward, trembling.
“Go out! I am going to give this
woman In charge 1”
“In pity’s name, don’t do that!”
Georgina gulped, and struggled for
breath. “She—she Is your klk-kik
Cousln Almee!”
Georgina dropped Into a chair nnd
began to cry. Alexander, taking bis
hand from the bell, wondered if she
had suddenly become Insane.
“Quite right,” said Almee. With the
calm of despair she planted herself In
front of him, her eyes defiant. "I am
your klk-kik-Cousln Almee. And that's
my cousin, Georgina Berners. I made
her take my place here, because I
thought It would be dull, and Dad In
sisted on my coming. So now call the
police, Cousin Allck, and let's get It
over.”
It seemed to Alexander that he had
suddenly been transported Into Bed
lam. He stared from Almee to the
gently sobbing Georgina. And then,
as the door began to open, Mr. Lambe
turned swiftly and caught the handle,
preventing the Intruder from entering.
“Did you ring, miss?” Inquired Mr.
Tarbeaux’s voice.
“A mistake,” said Alexander, quick
ly. “I will ring If I want you." He
closed the door, and peered searchlng
ly at Almee.
“I, do not understand what this
means,” he said coldly, “but It does
not seem an occasion for the intrusion
of servants. We are alone. Will you
explain?”
Almee felt a sudden relief; a twinge
almost of gratitude. She had not ex
pected Alexander to do anything so
sensible.
“I’ll make it clear If I can,” she
said, and, looking Alexander In the
face with an nngelically simple expres
sion, she told him the tale from the
beginning, briefly, yet comprehensive
ly. As she was speaking, Almee
watched Mr. Lambe’s face. The waves
of emotion that passed over his usu
ally serene features made them Inter
esting, suggesting some delicate In
strument subjected to shocks for
which it had never been designed.
At the end he was gasping faintly, like
a stranded but still dignified fish.
“And so,” concluded Almee, “you see
it’s a piece of my skirt the police have
got. And It was I who tripped you
up the stairs. I’m sorry—Cousin.”
Mr. Lnmbe passed a somewhat un
steady hand across his forehead. He
looked at Almee, and then turned
slowly to Georgina.
“Miss Berners—” he said.
Georgina’s answer was a sob. Imme
diately Almee stepped across, raised
her from her chair and, with an arm
round her waist, faced Alexander.
“Stop! Not a word from you to
Georgina!" she said defiantly. ‘There’s
no one to blame but me. Everything
she’s done, I made her do. She want
ed me to own up. All this, she’s done
to try and save me. Georgie's the best
thing that ever happened.”
Alexander looked at Almee.
“My dear child,” he said gently, “I
have only one wish and that Is to help
you.”
Alrnee’s lips parted; she stared at
him incredulously. She saw the most
human sympathy in the clean-shaven,
priestly face; the kindliest light In his
large eyes.
“Miss Berners,” said Alexander,
still more gently, “will you leave me
with your cousin? I should like to
speak to her alone. I will see you
presently, If you will give me an op
J/'.U bUUU J »
Georgina nodded brokenly, and
moved to the window.
“Georgie,” whispered Almee quickly,
as she passed, "meet me by the little
arbor down the gardens In half an
hour—it won’t be safe here—after
this.”
Almee and Alexander were left to
gether, facing each other. There was
an embarrassed pause.
“Tell me, Cousin,” said Alexander,
quietly, “why have you done this mad
thing?”
"Well,” said Aimee, for once at a
loss, “I—you see—I was afraid of you,
Alexander." She glanced up at him
almost shyly. "I didn't want to come
to Jervaulx. I thought tt would suit
Georgie much better than me.”
Alexander’s firm lips twitched very
slightly.
“I got fed up at home,” continued
Aimee, desperately. “Everybody was
so solemn. They drove me to It! I
Just did it on the impulse. And then I
—things sort of happened—I—”
She made an impatient, hopeless
gesture with her hands.
‘Oh, what’s the use of talking about
it? It’s done, and here I am In this
wretched mess. Police after me, and—
everything! You’ve found me out—
you can give me away. What are you
going to do?”
“There is only one thing to do,” said
Alexander. "Make a clean breast of
It.”
Aimee’s lips tightened.
“Come with me to Aunt Erythea,”
said Mr. Lambe soothingly. “I will ac
company you. PH do everything I
can for you. There la no other way.
For I caq see,” he said, “that you have
courage.”
“No,” said Almee decisively, “It Is
Impossible.”
Alexander’s eyes became keener. He
looked a little contemptuous.
"Are you afraid?" he said. “Do you
not see that you must face the conse
quences of this foolish thing you have
done? Once the truth Is told, you
have nothing to fear from the police.”
“The police 1” said Almee scornfully.
“I’m not afraid of the police. I’m
not much afraid of Aunt Erythea. It
Isn’t that at all. It’s—the other
thing.”
“What other thing?”
Almee looked at him with growing
embarrassment.
“Oh!” she said at last, desperately,
“have I got to put It in so many
words? My staying at Ivy cottage!
Didn’t you understand what I told
you? I was there—two nights."
Mr. Lambe, to her surprise, did not
look forbidding or censorious. Instead,
he looked a little puzzled. And in
that moment Ahnee conceived a liking
for Alexander.
“Now that I have seen yotf, and
heard your story,” he said, “I attach
no importance to that Incident, what
ever.”
“Ah,” said Almee sadly, “but other
people will, you see.”
Alexander suddenly flushed crimson,
and he avoided Almee’s eye. But his
face grew peculiarly grim.
“I have only this to say. That
man—that Spencer—who dared to ex
pose you to such a situation, Is the
culprit I wish to see. He deserves—”
Aimee's heel smote the floor.
“Not a word against Billy! It’s he
who saved me, right from the begin
ning. He begged me to let him wn
up. But he has kept my secret, at
his own risk, becnuse I wanted it
kept. He Is a gentleman!”
Alexander winced. At thnt moment,
out of the tail of her eye, Aimee
caught sight of a tall figure In over
alls crossing the gravel-walk beyond
the lawn. •
“Here he Is!” exclaimed Almee.
"Let him answer for himself, i‘f you
want to see him.”
She ran to the window and called
recklessly:
“Billy 1”
Mr. William Spencer looked towards
her, glanced quickly left and right to
see if the coast was clear, and hurried
to join Aimee. He stepped in through
tne window.
“Billy,” said Aimee, "this is my
Cousin Alexander. And he’s — he
knows all about it. It seems this Is
our finish, Billy."
The two men turned and faced each
other.
CHAPTER XVI
"They Must Be Told."
Mr. Lambe’s serious eyes had be
come hard and penetrating as a pair
of crystal lenses. They gave the Im
pression of piercing the exterior of the
man before him, and reading his mind.
Alexander looked, at that moment,
rather like an inquisitor of Torque
mada’s court.
•‘You are Mr. William Spencer?”
said Alexander Icily.
“That’s so. You don’t know me? I
guessed you wouldn’t. But I remem
ber you very well, though I never con
nected your name till now,’’ said Billy
calmly. “You were chaplain to the
Tenth Rutlands, in 1918. Came from
China to join ’em, I heard.”
Mr. Lambe was silent.
“I was a sub In the Ninety-seventh
of the line, lying next the British
Seventieth division at Arras,” added
Billy. “I remember you because you
brought in six wounded who got left,
after the raid on the pillboxes. Two
of them were ours. You got the mili
tary brass.”
Aimee stared at Alexander in blank
amazement.
“That will do,” interrupted Mr.
Lambe Impatiently. “We are not deal
ing with the war. Do you realize,” he
said in his grimmest tone, “Uve posi
tion in which you have placed this
lady?”
Billy looked straight nt him.
“You are Miss Scroope’s cousin,” he
said quietly, “and a parson. 1 guess
I’ll take lying down, from you, any
thing you choose to say or do. Of
course I realize it, and it’s why I’m
here. I’ve been a fool. I didn’t seem
to know. But I ought to have known.”
He sighed.
“Things are so different, where I
belong. An’ they were different in
France—mighty different. But that's
no excuse. I wish I’d broken my neck
before I did such a fool thing. And
here we are in the soup. I don’t mat
ter. And you don’t matter either,
parson. A1I that matters is’ Miss
Scroope. Get me?”
"Come here,” said Alexander.
Be took Billy by the arm, led him
to the window, and turned him so that
the sun shone full on his face. Mr.
Lambe looked at Billy for some mo
ments in silence, with a peculiar In
tentness.
“Mr. Spenaer,” said Alexander, re
leasing him, “I will see you presently.
I shall hare something to say to you.
For the moment, leave me with my
cousin. And—go quickly I"
Billy nodded. He turned to Almee
with a smile.
“Don’t you worry,” he said quietly,
“the padre’s white.”
Billy disappeared with extreme sud
denness through the window. Alexan
der came slowly up to Almee.
“That young man,” he said, “has the
heart of n child. It Is a good thing
to have. And rare, at his age. That
does not alter the fact that your situ
ation Is dangerous, and even terrible.
My decision Is Anal,” he said earnestly.
“There is but one thing to do. The
plain, honest course. Aunt Erythea
must be told Immediately. Then you
will be safe.”
“And I repeat it’s Impossible,” re
turned Almee quickly. “Can’t you see?
You understand. And Georgle under
stands. But there Is one who will
never understand. My father. He
doesn’t belong to our time. He’ll con
Aimee Seized His Hands in Hers.
skier only one thing—that his daugh
ter has been disgraced before all the
county. Her name a by-word among
the rabble. That’s how he’ll take It.
It will simply be Dad’s finish.”
Aimee sniffed miserably.
"I never thought about It. But
Georgle told me what it would mean
to my father. And she’s right. You
don’t know Dad.”
Alexander had turned rather white.
He walked to the door and back, in
some agitation.
“It Is some years since I have seen
your father. But I knew him very
well. And I believe you are right.
This would be a heavy blow to him.
But—It has got to be faced.”
“And I will not let Dad face Iti”
said Aimee hotly. “I don’t care, for
myself. But I’m not going to have
him made miserable—for all the par
sons in the country!”
“You have no choice. You do not
suppose for a moment this thing can
bt concealed and overcome!”
Aimee turned to him with supreme
confidence.
“Of course I do. Billy will see it
through!” she said triumphantly.
Alexander gasped.
“I cannot countenance deceit. The
whole thing is known to me—my po
sition is impossible,” he said. “I
should be abetting a lie."
“There’s no need for you to do any
thing at all. Nobody wanted you to
butt in, Alexander. The secret Is
mine, not yours. Go to Aunt Erythea.
if you must!” said Aimee bitterly.
“Oh, I’m not complaining—I can see
that you must. Only you’ll do It with
out my sanction. Go to her, and tell
her all you know about me.”
Alexander groaned. For awhile he
was silent. The perspiration stood
out on his forehead. The anguish in
his face was so plain that even Aimee
felt compunction.
Alexander sighed aloud.
“I Shall keep silence,” he said. "It
is impossible for me to betray a wom
an’s sefcret without her consent—or to
utter <hie word that may affect her
reputation. But what will come of
It—*’ \
“Ah!" 'said Aimee eagerly, “you
need know Nothing at all. Whatever
happens, I’ll keep you out of It."
"On the contrary! I implore you,
whatever difficulty arises, to come to
me. I—I will do all I can.” He gulped.
“I want to help you, Aimee.”
Aimee seized his hands in hers.
“Alexander," she cried breathlessly,
“I am sorry I knocked you down!”
The next moment she had fled
through the window.
Half an hour later Almee, a some
what furtive figure, was dodging to
and fro on the path near the little
arbor in the rose garden, keeping an
anxious eye on all the approaches
from the house. She was still feeling
a little confused.
"Who would ever have dreamed he
was such /a good sort as thatl” she
said to htrself. “It’s a delirious sort
of mess I’ve got them both into. I
hope he ‘won't Jump on poor Georgle.
Why on earth doesn’t she hurry upt
There she is—oh bother 1—Alexander
again!”
Alinee retreated out of sight Into ,
the arbor.
Georgina came slowly along the
path, her countenance pale and down
cast, like a recalcitrant novice who
fears the Lady Superior. Mr. Alex
ander Lainbe, looming through the
forest of standard roses, quickly over
took her.
“Miss Berners I”
Georgina turned to him with fright
ened eyes.
“I wish to speak with you,” said
Alexander with suppressed agitation.
"Shall we be seated?” He led her to
a rustic seat close against the arbor.
"It distresses me,” said Mr. Lambe
earnestly, “to see, as 1 cannot help
seeing, the effect tills has had upon
you. The shock to your sensibility.
Let me set your mind at rest, as far
as I can. I hardly dare to think how
It will all end. But your cousin is aa
innocent as an Infant of any real In
tent to deceive. She has behaved as
inconsequently as a child—thifl Is all.
One—one must try to make' allow
ances for her. She should be still at
school. That is what I think of her.”
“Yes,” murmured Georgina miser
ably, "but what must you think of—
me!”
"Of you!” said Mr. Lambe with
strong feeling. “Your loyalty—your
unflinching attachment to that young
madcap, stirs my admiration. It is
dreadful to think of what you must
have suffered. Purely to protect
Almee. You faced my aunt.” Mr.
Lambe clasped his hand and drew his
breath in sharply. “Yes, you risked
the displeasure of my aunt! And—
of course, the police. For days this
sword of Damocles has been hanging
over your blameless head. You—you
have not been guilty of deceit. No, no!
Only of silence. I think you have
behaved, on the whole, admirably.”
“Oh!” gasped Georgia faintly, hard
ly daring to believe her ears, “you can
not mean it!”
“I do mean it!” exclaimed Mr.
Lambe warmly. “Miss Berners, from
the first hour I saw you, I was con
vinced of your—your essential- good
ness! It betrays itself in all ttrrft you
do. Anything that Is underhand or
questionable, glides away from you—”
proclaimed Mr. Lambe, with a sweep
ing movement of his hand, “as the
turbid stream flows over the river
bed of white marble, leaving its pui>
ity unsullied. My admiration for you
is greater, if that Is possible, than
ever.”
Georgina’s heart fluttered delight
fully.
“I think,” continued Alexander, with
growing enthusiasm, "that you exist
to sacrifice yourself for others, Mlsa
Berners. You have more than piety—
you have charity. It is one of the
sweetest qualities in a woman.”
Georgina turned to him with swim
1U1U^ VUI
“Oh, Mr. Lambe!” she murmured
with delicious confusion.
Alexander answered her with a hol
low groan. She was startled at the
sudden distress in his face.
"The question is not what I think of
you,” he said bitterly, "but what you
think of mel You know the prin
ciples I profess, and that I impressed
on you. Out of my own mouth I am
condemned. How can you feel any
thing but contempt for me! I have
consented to connive at this mad esca
pade of Aimee’s and all its conse
quences. T® keep silent. To—to hol
ster it up,” he said with a gulp. SjT
have passed my word.”
Georgina’s eyes shone.
“You have done that!” she cried
eagerly. “Why, now that you are on
her side, she may be saved from ex
posure after all! I think it is splen
did of you—absolutely splendid!”
"How can you think of me, but as
a hypocrite? You do not mean, Miss
Berners, that you feel any respect for
me now?”
“Mr. Lambe, when I first knew you,
I thought you my ideal as a church
man. I think so more than ever.
When I was in trouble, and consulted
you, I seemed to find you a little hard.
Poor Aimee had enough to bear. But
now,” gasped Georgina, quite carried
away, "I consider your conduct noble
—really noble! I admire you more
than ever.”
“Miss Berners,” said Alexander,
husky with emotion, "If only you knew
what a relief it is, that I have not
forfeited your regard! I have only,
known you a few days, but your kind
ness, your sympathy—” his hand closed
almost convulsively on hers—“Mlsa
Berners, may I call you Aimee—I—I
mean Georgina—!”
“Poof P
A stifled, explosive sound caused Mr.
Lambe to start violently and look
round him.
“8 nooks! You're Aimee
Seroopet Don’t deny tt!" said
Diana, fiercely.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Thought for the Day.
One can be loyal to his own convic
tions without being Intolerant of an
other's convictions.