HIS FATHER'S SON.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 253, 24 October 1936, Page 8 (Supplement)

HIS FATHER'S SON.

(Continued from page 60.)

Edgar was limp from the shock of the vicar's words. His eyes were on the carpet, unseeing, and his ears were closed dully to further proof. Stephen had been accused of .his own despicable • action! Throughout all these years Stephen had carried the hlame for a weak moment he had thought long buried. How he had hated himself for the anger that had made temptation—thieving—a rightful thing; how often, in his heart, he had thanked God for Stephen's intervention. But now that intervention was to prove- of no avail. Sn the very day when his world had frighted itself, arid the future stretched clear and inviting to the horizon, a fog from the past had rolled up to blacken it all. ■ "I am proud of you, my boy— prouder than I can say!" Those had been the vicar's words. In them had been the promise of a priceless crown to fame and fortune -—perfect relationship between father and son. The boy realised now. as never before, just how much this one thing meant to him. He played for time. "It may have been a mistake," he suggested hopefully; but a shake of the head was his answer. "He could not deny it, Edgar. He was here with my money in his hands-v-" "But a good cause—a good reason—" 4 "They were poor—his mother was ill —needing things, no doubt," the man conceded. "But it is hard to

' excuse him. I had been a good friend." "Yes," said Edgar, conscious of his hot cheeks. "But," he persisted, careful now how he trod on dangerous ground. "He may —what if he were shielding someone?" "Shielding?" repeated the vicar, raising his head quickly, keen eyes curious. "How could.he be shielding anyone? And he could have told me." "Not of a friend." Edgar's voice was suddenly firm with purpose. His was a wild, tempestuous temperament; but the same reckless courage that had braved the ocean storm, carried him into another as great. But he chose his words. Almost imperceptibly he began to fasten his coat. "Not of a friend? Would he have told you, say, of a weakness in your own son?" There was meaning in his tone, meaning in the eyes he raised, for a moment, to, meet those slowly understanding. A moment, and then they fell. The pain in that stricken face made him almost regret his decision. The silence was deadly. It foretold, with a certainty, the judgment the boy had known to be inevitable. The quiet was more than he could stand: a blow he could have taken better. He rose to his feet and went towards the door, pausing on the threshold. "I'd like you, to know, sir, that I've always thought that money was replaced, unbeknown to you." He wanted—oh! how much!—to say simply, "I'm sorry, father," but his pride would not pass the words. "Good-bye, sir." The vicar did not answer. His thoughts were back five years ago.

"You'll keep it from mother—and Edgar?" Stephen had pleaded, and had let it be thought that shame lay behind the plea. And. all the while —his own son. . . . Unaware that he had been left alone, he dropped heavily into the nearest chair, and dusk came and, later, the dark. Edgar returned to his boarding house, humiliated, and already almost regretting his hastiness. Yet he felt, within himself, no less repented or ashamed. He knew, had another chance been given him, that he would have done the same. The cost was high, but justice demanded payment. Remembrance of the club's weekly social offered escape from the misery that possessed him, and impatient with himself for brooding over a past that could not be undone, he prepared himself for a gay evening. The social served its purpose. "A Tavern in the Town" was in full swing when he entered, but an eagle eye found him by the door, and a cry of "Here's Manly!" interrupted the song. The music gave way to shouts of welcome, and, protesting, the hero of the hour was hoisted high, i The tinny old piano led the way: "For he's a jolly good fellow—" The sturdy shoulders were to Edgar the top of the world. None could have guessed the bitterness of his thoughts. All this he would have given up for the one thing he had lost, but he forced the conviction upon himself that his happiness was complete. "Stephen may steal my father's affection," he told himself, "but never —never can he take the triumph of this hourl"

i The mantel clock chimed a slow seven as Stephen entered the study with his easel. The vicar looked up with a faint smile, reminding. "Another hour, Stephen — and Edgar will be here." The boy nodded. He set up the easel where it gained the most light. '"Yes. I'm glad you wrote to him." He paused. "He is very fond of you." The vicar was surprised. "What makes you say that?" ,he asked. "Tell me." Stephen eat down to his painting as he replied. "I think 1 know Edgar fairly well —we both know liis pride. For three months he has not seen you— me, never, since that night. How will he be feeling when he faces us to-night?" "Why—" the vicar began, somewhat helplessly. "You—and I—find it easy to forgive. To anyone of Edgar's nature it is not so easy to be forgiven, whatever the crime. Only one thing can have let him take that letter of yours as humbly as he has. That is love for you." The vicar was silent. Was it possible that this boy understood his son better than he? He saw every* thing suddenly with a new light that entered his soul. The future was bright, the hurt in his heart was changed for a lightness, for which he had no name. His shining eyes found the clock. Forty—only 45 minutes. . . . Steplun was using his brujh with quiet concentration. In the vicar's eyes, as they looked at him, was an expression of gentleness that had only one meaning.