LOVE REPRIEVED.

Auckland Star, Volume LVII, Issue 135, 9 June 1926, Page 8

LOVE REPRIEVED.

(SHORT STORY.)

jßj VAIT&HAN DRYDEN.)

I * Peter Oldham ought to have been a happy man that bright spring morning! He had youfck abounding vitality, money, and the moat charming girl in the world as his wife. More, he had just askwi Celia'e father for his i consent to tb// engagement, and Mr. Kobison gelded in a kind of gratified fluster. ! "Not many men nowaGays take the ' trouble to ask the parents* consent," the merchant had said. "No wita-your-leave or by-your-leave in these times! Young people go off and get married like buying a car. I'm glad you asked mc. Shows the right-feeling—the right feeling. Pity there's so little of it left." So that was satisfactory, and the 1 young man was about to depart and , telephone to Celia when Mr. Robison, ! who had been trotting up and down the ! room in an agitated manner, came to a I halt, and, looking earnestly into Peter's tanned young face, said:—

"One thing I must ask you to do, my boy, and that is to get overhauled 6y a doctor. Can't take too many precautions when you're going to chance matriI mony." "But I'm as eound as a bell," protested the young man. "Of course, of course," said hie future father-in-law, soothingly. "Only a formality, my boy; but ife better to have the mind at rest —the mind at rest, i eh?" j "So I've got to be vetted," mused Peter, as he waited for a taxi on the . kerb. j The notion displeased him; life and ■ the world in general looked good to him, and this sudden reminder of suffering and death was irksome. Like all healthy -young people, he liked to shut his eyes to the existence of sickness and . pain. I A shadow seemed to have fallen over the brightness of the day. ; Mr. Kobison had given him a card with an address on it—that of a lifelong friend, and one of the cleverest practitioners in town. He had urged Peter to go that very moment, as Dr.

Humfries was about to start on a trip to one of the Scandinavian towns, where a medical congress was being held. Therefore, the young man decided to get the ordeal over and done with as speedily as possible. A sombre door in Wimpole Street was opened by a tall young woman of the parlourmaid type. She wore no cap and had a light coat flung over her neat black frock. "Do you want to see the doctor? He's going away," said the grrl, breathlessly. She even seemed a little frightened, Peter thought. However, she made no demur at admitting the inconvenient patient to the consulting-room. Here a dark lean man with bright, piercing eyes stood amidst suit-cases and portmanteaux. He was in his shirt-sleeves. "You're just in time," he said, abruptly. "Another fifteen minutes and I should have been off." Peter had an instinctive dread of doctors—their keen, probing eyes, and their cool, strong, skilful fingers. "What are you staring at?" demanded the dark man, harshly. "You're—you're a younger man than I expected to see," stammered the patient. "I'm older than I look," grinned the other. "Come on, what's your trouble?" "No trouble at all, I hope," said Peter, 1 cheerfully, and in a few words he ex- | plained the situation. The other nodded, muttered a perfunctory phrase of congratulation, and then said in a brisk, business-like ; tone: —

"Come on, take off your coat and w ; coat, and we'll put you through it. By the way, have you been to an insurance doctor?" "Xot yet," explained Peter, adding that he had only just become engaged, and that the lite insurance business was the next item on the agenda. All this time the stealthy steps of the scared-looking parlourmaid were heard going to and fro in the hall. Thie seemed to irritate the man with the stethoscope, and once, pausing in his examination, he went to the door, called the girl, an-i said something in a low. hoarse whisper. He was busy again for a few moments, and then, looking up at the patient, asked, curtly:— "Do any athletics?" "I rowed a good deal at college," replied the surprised Peter. "Thought so. I seemed to detect a murmur l " The voice trailed away into silence.

• • • Ten minutes later Peter stood on the pavement outside, turning a grey, drawn face to the mocking blue of the sky. ** "Six months at the outside!" had I been the verdict. Peter was numb with the shock; and he was filled with an immense sense of j grievance. It seemed so unfair so I unjust; he had done nothing to deserve this hideous fate. He was sentenced to death, with no chance of appeal. He found that he I still had his hat in his hand, and he put lit on hastily. J Then ho laughed drearily at himself. "Afraid of catching cold, and to die in a few- days' or months' time!" He drove to the club, and sank into one of the big leather armchairs in the smoking room. Two things he had to do. The first was to write to Celia a letter that might break her heart. And the second. . . . He did not put it into words. As lie sat there with grey, haggard face, some of his club acquaintances were chatting cheerfully around him. They were making plan? for the coining holidays and recommending their fa\" ourite resorts. "Topping place," a cheery voice said. 'I went last year, and I'm going again { I!ut there would be no holiday this ; year for Peter Oldliam. If things had been different, he would have spent one with folia— their first holiday together. His faep contracted in a* spasm of pain The chatter of the men and their jovial freedom from care wei'e unendurable. Jlc left the club. l'eter went away from London for a few weeks after that morning in Wi:npole Street. He could not fare the friends and acquaintances of the diivs before the sentence of dfafli—heart'v Horid nieu who looked as if ihev would J live for ever. He could not bring him- ■ self to tell them of his plight, though he felt as if he could stream at some of the unheeding peeple who jostled him in the street: "Treat mc with respect. Don't you know that I shall soon be dead?" He had had one letter from Celia—just the sort of brave, loyal letter he had expected. He read it eagerly, then deliberately dropped it into the fed blaze on the hearth. He flid nut \vi\t ! }-..•■ ivjahi.

On« evening he was back again a Wb flat, making a careful toilet for the W feast. "*&.

"I must look well"—'he smiled *t vt reflection as he tied hie I am to keep an appointment «Uh death!" *"■

All sorts of incongruous images rioted through -hie mind—a picture of a tor's consulting-room by the Hon. John Collier, Cruikshank's drawing of Fagia in the condemned cell, oar blades flashing in the eun as eight human machines drove the racing-skiff through the water.

"They ought," he explained to his reflection, "to tell young fellows how overdoing it at rowing may permanently affect the heart."

Dressing finished, he cast one glance round the cosy bedroom, dropped his Service revolver into the pocket of his dinner-jacket, and switched off the light; "They generally eat well on the last day," he thought, "or at least, so the papers cay! Anyhow, I sha'n't have indigestion, whatever I indulge in." To his annoyance, his favourite reitaurant was nearly full, and the table to which the waiter steered him already had one diner seated at it. Peter ordered lobster salad, cutleti, asparagus, and a bottle of Pol Roger, and then glanced idly at his table companion. He saw a thinfaced man of about 60, of indeterminate type, commonplace and placidly bored. If the*lobster in the dish had spoken, he could not have been more startled than when the thin man said, in a quiet, drawling voice: "Don't do it." "What do you mean?" snapped Peter. "What should I mean when a man of your age wears your expression, and drinks champagne as if his throat were the Sahara? Besides, I heard the butt knock against the chair as you sat down."

Looking again at the thin man, Peter was aware of a curious look beneath the mask of a placid boredom. The eyej had a look of infinite pity and infinite patience with the woes and struggles of mankind.

Peter was surprised to find himself a few moments later talking earnestly with this interfering but pleasant stranger. "Doctors make mistakes," said the latter. "My father was given up when he was twenty-one. He cheated the doctors, though, or I should not be here." "That makes no difference," said Peter. "I am not killing myself because 1 am tired of waiting for the end." "A girl?" "Yes." * "You wrote and broke it off as soon as you heard the doctor's verdict, I presume 1" "Yes." "I thought so." "I had no right to tie a girl to a man sentenced to death!" "A girl has the right to decide for herself, you quixotic chuckle-head," said the stranger. "And suppose the doctor was wrong, could you find the girl again V "Don't mock mc," groaned Peter. "There is no shadow of a doubt. He ni emphatic." "Who was it?" "Gwyn Humfries, in Wimpole Street." "H'm!" mused the stranger. "I knew him some time ago. A clever old stick." "Old!" cried Peter. "He isnt much older than I am." The stranger bore a curious expression. He looked searchingly into Peter , ! worn face. "Dr. Humfries qualified at Edinburgh in 79, the same year as myself," h» said. "Come, would you know his picture if you saw it?" He laid a cutting from an evening paper on the table. "I kept it," he explained, "because I have a weakness for cuttings concerning people of whom I have some knowledge."

The mild, epectacled face of a man nearing seventy looked up. The caption declared him to be Dr. Gwyn Humfries, the well-known heart specialist. But it was the letterpress alongside the picture at which Peter was staring. It ■ran:

"The West End was rid of a scourge yesterday when, at the Old Bailey, James Delarge (38), no fixed abode, wal sent to penal servitude for three year* for housebreaking. This daring crim* jnal'e specialty was entering doctors' houses when the occupants were away, and making off with anything he could lay hands on. He generally began operations by making friends with maidservants in the employ of the doctors, being a scoundrel of plausible address. "Through the vigilance of Detective Naylor, Delarge was captured one day last month when leaving the Wimpole Street house of Dr. Gwyn Humfrios, the well-known heart specialist, who was abroad at the time."

The brightly-lit restaurant swam round Peter, and he was dimly aware of somebody offering him a glass of water.

"Then it wasn't a doctor I saw," be gasped, weakly. / His companion sighed. "Medical student gone wrong," he said wearily. "A sad case. I knew the family. And now," he added, "dont you think you ought to get into communication with your girl?"