RIGHT AGAINST MIGHT

Auckland Star, Volume XLIV, Issue 108, 7 May 1913, Page 10

RIGHT AGAINST MIGHT

-HE DRAMATIC LOVE STORY OF JOHN STRAND, M.P. By PAUL TBENT, Author of "The Vow," "Tlue Home Secretary," "A Wife by Purchase," etc., etc. CHAPTER L. .Tovce looked appealingly at Strand, a_d," after a moment's hesitation, sat _?wn. "I have arranged about the funeral. It will be a very simple one—he would have preferred it so," he said, in a low voice. -'Yes," she -answered, and sighed deeply. Suddenly she appeared to ma-ke up her mind, and came across to him. "John, I know something has come between' us. 1 want you to be quite frank with mc," she said, and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"it is nothing. Let tia go on as we were for a few daw. I am worried about something, but 1 may find a way." "Tell mc what it is, dear,"' she said, pleadingly. "It wouldn't make things any easier for either of us." he answered. Just then there was a knock at the 'door, and it was with a feeling of relief that Strand went to see who was the visitor. "Morrison—for it was he—held out his hand and gripped John's. "You know how glad I am, Srrajid. All the time I could not bring myself to believe that you had sold us. AVe. hat:- had a meeting this morning, and they have deputed mc to visit you."

"'Come in," Strand said, quietly. •He was touched by tbe expression on Morrison's face, for there was no mistaking the delight he felt. "'We're all ashamed ot ourselves, and we want you to come back as our leader. Why not take your seat for to-night! I "can guarantee you a great reception." "Mr Cobden, my roster-father, died yesterday. 1 shall" not take my seat till after his funeral. "Please accept my sympathy. Perhaps you will not like to be troubled with business?"

'-•Don't go away. I'm quite ready to discuss anything with you." Strand answered hastily, for he dreaded io be alone with Joyce.

"This morning 'we discussed Southwold. Of course, we now believe that he knew of your innocence. Mason was careful not to give him away, but it is clear that he plotted to drive you out of politics. Southwold is not fit to retain his position as Prime Minister. He must be forced to resign."

•'You won't find it easy,"' John answered.. '"Naturally, he will deny that he plotted with M-ason. Then it will be one man's word against another's — and the public will prefer to accept that of the Prime Minister."

"At any rate, we can defeat the Government. Listen to mc, Strand. We •want you to came back as our leader. -I can guarantee you the loyalty of every anan. 'We shall be content to follow your advice implicitly; and 1 think we can safely leave Southwold"s punishment in .jhjut.hands."' ■, : -. , >j-.ri- .|_ \ -' "Yes, you can do that?' Strand an-s-wered, and there, was a bitterness in hie voice, that caused Joyce to look at him anxiously. "By the by. llorrisoh, 1 ought to have presented you to my wife:"

Morrison was surprised, but he heartily shook the hand which Joyce shyly offered.

"We -were married just before Mr Cobden died. That reminds me—l must send an announcement to the papers."

"I -wonder the reporters haven't ferreted it out. They'll make a story of it. By the by. the 'Herald' had a most fulsome article about you this morniug."

"I suppose they think that I shall be all the more likely to compromise the libel action which I have brought against them."

"You could make a small fortune if you cared to sne all the newspapers who went for you," Morrison said, with a la ugh. "Doubtless; but I don't care for money from such a source. Most of them thought they were doing their duty. They were honestly mistaken, and 1 suffered." "Don't you feel vindictive against tinyone?" Morrison asked, curiously. "T can't say I do." "We couldn't blame you if you hated the lot of us. "Now I must get along. Will you let mc know as soon as yon are ready to take your seat? Your friends would like to be present."

"In a couple of days I shall he ready. Good-bye. Morrison. You are one of the few who stuck to mc, and I sha'n't forget it."

"There's Sylvester. He was simply grand. Good-bye, Mrs Strand."'

During this interview Joyce had been thinking deeply, and she came to the conclusion that it would be better to leave John alone for the present. She did not wish to force a confidence that was not readily given; but, although hurt hy his refusal, she gave no sign of it.

They did not meet again until the morning, and they were both very silent during the meal, and afterwards, during the long drive to the cemetery. To John's surprise, there were a good number of people present, but he did not look around until the last words had been said and earth sprinkled on the coffin.

Joyce held Jiis arm, and he could feel that she was trem-ttiug violently. "Come away, dear," he said, very gently. And as they walked away he recognised Silas Mason, and with him were Sylvia and Cranston. They stopped to speak to them, and- then Strand saw a well-known figure approaching him. Gerald Southwold's face was pale, and his ga.it was that of an old man. "You—you here!" Strand 6aid, coldly. "Yes. I had to come. I must speak "to you." "But not now—by the grave of the Wan you ruined." "Yon know that you are my son."

"You need not fear that I shall expose you for the wrong you did my mother—and your friend. But your attempt to ruin mc is another matter. I may uot have a free hand, and " "J haven't come here to ask for mercy." "I wonder you came at all. Arc you quite shameless?" said Strajid. and, turning on his heel, joined the others. "Come, Joyce. Good-bye." And he Jed her to the carriage, hut she stopped for one last look at the grave of her _de, and she _3 crying •£*-**. to feared! Stm_"s face wai -"■§__. _T* _ _ c aeated ' krmiKdf fee., -^ e -tw y eS__t_o_: ld teen pre -

"I dare not show him mercy," John muttered, and Joyce caught the words. She slipped her hand into his, and with the other brushed away her teats.

"John, we mustn't grieve any more. Uncle wouldn't wish us to be miserable. In our hearts we shall not forget him, but 1 intend to live my life as if he were still with us—and you must do the same." "1 will do my best." "'To-morrow you must take your seat in the House. And, John, now that you are losing .Mr Cranston, 1 am going to be your secretarj-."

"Good. 1 eha'n't be aWe to pay the salary of one. I'm afraid we shall be v athcr poor."

"I don't mind. I've never been anything else," Joyce answered, cheerfully.

"'Your uncle has left, you all he has. It won't be very much—but it'll be a little -nest-egg."

"We don't want money for happiness. I'd give all I have, John, to see the old light in your eyes. I don't want to trouble you, dear, but I'm frightened. Have T done anything to —to "

''No," he said,-hastily, and his arm went around her. "I only ask you to be patient."

•'I wish uncle had not insisted upon our being married. I feel that our marriage was forced on you, and I'm ashamed."

In answer he drew her more closely to him, and kissed her with great tenderness. "'You know that I love you with every fibre of my being. But, Joyce, I must come to you with clean hands. I must be able to look into your eyes tinashamed; and 1 I can't do so until I have rid myself of a great burden." "Let mc share it," she broke in, eagprly. "I would if you could help, but I must go through with it alone. Be patient with mc. dear."

She did not insist further, and when the Temple was reached she at once started on her household duties. At dinner they discussed where they should live, and decided upon moving all their things upstairs to the chambers which had belonged to York Cobden.

"I can easily sublet this place and save the rent. AYe shall have plenty of room upstairs,'' lie said; and she agreed. John worked late that night, for there were arrears of correspondence, and Joyce was busy moving back her possessions. At breakfast in the morning Strand announced his intention of taking his seat that day. "May I conic?" she asked, eagerly. "Yes; I will get you a pass for the Ladies' Gallery." "I'm sure Sylvia would like to come." "Then I'll ask Cranston to take you both," he answered, and toon afterwards left. ■ Joyce began to clear the table, and shortly- afterwards the charwoman arrived to do the rough work. By lunchtime the chambers were spick and span. "] don't feel hungry." Joyce said, with j a sigh

Just then there was a knock at the door, which she hastened to answer. A rough-looking man. about whom there was something strangely familiar, stood oil. the landing and eyed her keenly. "I want to see "Mr Cobden," he said, bluntly. "Mr Cobden is dead." The man stepped into the passage, aud examined her with interest. "Well, don't you know mc?" he asked, with a grin. And then she recognised him, and her face 'became very 'white.

"You are my father," she said, ncr vously. '"•■"' " ■

"You've guessed right. Out there, in Canada, they told mc where you'd gone, and I followed. So Cobden's dead. Well, I guess he was no friend of mine, so I sha'n't Tepine. Halloa! 1 smell cooking. I'm hungry, my girl." He walked along to the sitting-room, and she followed him closely.

"You've got a tidy little place here. Did your uncle leave you any money?" he asked, and glanced at her sharply "Why don't you speak, my girl? Haven't yon a tongue?"

"Why have you come here? 1 don't want you. You hated mother aud mc. You were cruel to her—and—-1 wish you would go."'

"First T want something to eat. and then well have a chat. You say Cobden is dead. Who pays for this place? There was another name on the door — John Strand. I guess "hat's the politician they're. Tnak'n-sr such a furs a bom." "It is the same Mr Strand. Father, why have you come here? You never eared for mc. and—Heaven forgive mc for saying it—-but 1 don't want .yon. All my life there was no happiness when you were at home." "That's a nice filial remark. Surely ,i father has the right to visit his daughter? What's this man Strand to you?" "He is my husband." she answered, and looked at him anxiously. "That's excellent news. I must wait and make his acquaintance. As a matter of fact. I've nowhere to go: I'm broke. You don't look pleased," he remarked, dryly. i {To be continued Gaily.)