THE WHITE ANGEL OF EL TABRA.

New Zealand Herald, Volume L, Issue 15325, 11 June 1913, Page 11

THE WHITE ANGEL OF EL TABRA.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

I BY SILAS ** HOCKING, 1 BY SILAS K. HOCKING, 1 ?- Author of "Her Benny," " Tho Awakening | Iff 1 of Anthony." "A Bonnie Saxon," "A m • Modern Pharisee," "The Conquerp; ?.'•'' - inp Will." etc. I I CHAPTER XIX. '"' "Ke.oxt. David, you are very dense- ? *he replied, a little impatiently. "That %■ 'too will have to do something is certain. i '..*"•' You can't hang about here all day long I that would bs fatal. She believes in. a I man who does something worthy. ■j :;>',-■''■ "I've done heaps," he laughed, cynically. I :'■'.'- "She may believe that, but don't you Xi i. see the illusion has to be kept up. You I ;'■ must go into the city every day, and, I i- ; until you are married, you must really I 'settle down to work." "Settle down to work?" he exclaimed, ' "• in horror. ■ "You really must, David. Your father \ I .;. is still very suspicious. You'll have to ' \ &'," aake him h&UAi-t that you've turned over

1 a new leaf." §rff "Oh, heavens!" he groaned. '-' , "It's worth the effort, my boy. Any -man who is not a coward would gladly : " endure twice as much for such a prize." ,7C . '■'1t isn't the work merely," he groaned T ? : —"think of the strain." -V "What strain*' she demanded. •vj "Why,"the strain of .behaving like a i-'-.church elder for six months perhaps; and • yon told me it would be as easy as falling <V;v-downstairs." V /."Really.. David, you talk like an undisciplined boy! I shall begin to think—" ' ; "No, please—don't preach," he inter- , rupted, putting out his hands as if to ".-ward off something. "I'd rather fall downstairs than listen to a sermon. But 7 let us return to the subject again toi-:. morrow. I've really had as much as I .'/ can' digest to-day." I ' After two or three conversations with K/.his mother David camo to the conclusion \fm that he had better contrivo to follow her advice. "She's a knowing old bird," he ~vr6aid to himself, "and knows her way about." , -■ • "It's a beastly fag, mater," he said .aloud to her, ''and I expect 111 break! down in the middle." '>' \r.'£'~:\ " Nonsense, —you'll do nothing I ;, of the sort!" was her reply. "If a man can't put up for a few months with a few :&£ disagreeables in order to win a wife and /-'.a fortune he's not worth much." 2 '■> "I don't pretend to be worth much," ;frjhe laughed. "Fact is, I'm beastly hard ■ up." • j "Well, you are to be paid a salary ; ??. -■- -while you are at the office. I never ,', • thought your father would intercede for "- you to be taken back; however, he's done ->.;,£O, and you ought to be very grateful." '• -, "I hate the office and everything connected with it, as you know/" he mut- _ • tered. . ,' '

.. \ "I know you do, David, and I can't ■ . help saying I'm sorry." V "Don't begin to preach," he interjected. " However, it will only be for a short time,"" she went on, "and it's essential your father should believe you've turned over a new leaf." "Fancy me sitting at a desk, with the face cf a Y.JI.C.A. young man," he laughed, ironically, "getting my lunch at -' ■. "'■ an ABC shop, and returning every even- .. ing to the ancestral with "the air of a chapel deacon. I tell yon,-mater, it'll .",' wear me to skin and bone in a month." "I wish you would talk sensibly," she • answered, crossly. ," No sooner do I put you in the way of a fortune than you .begin.to raise obstacles. It'll be no :: •. harder for you than for millions of young - men who do it every day of their lives and don't grumble." V _ "Oh* if folks like sitting at a desk. • let 'em do it," he replied, "or any other - bkwanig thing they like. That's my I motto. I Every man for himself." " Bet,, if nobody worked, David, what would become of the world?" - " Slowed if I know, mother," he answered, good-humom-edly. "That's no concern of mine. I don't run the show, ind it may go to blazes for. all I care." /'Really, Davidl" ~' '■ " Yes, really. Who'd be the worse if IMine; whole blooming shoot smashed up tomorrow? I'm not going to worry my|fepielfoto" keep, the rotten old machine gpng." ■:■'■?, .„..-. . ■-~ Mrs. Pearson sighed, and turned away. She had done her > best—was doing her best still—but there was no denying that David was a disappointment. She had had her own way with him, had given him all the rope he demanded, had defended him at every point, had, lied to her husband a hundred times for his sake, and had resolutely believed that when be had sowed his wild oats he would settle down into a respectable citizen. But her hope was growing daily more dim; if marriage failed to : cure ; him she would lose hope altogether. i She sometimes wondered how far he was responsible. It was a question she could not answer, and nobody could answer it for her. :■;- ■>. ..v./'-. -. The trouble with David was that he appeared to have been born without any ' moral sense. He was not so much immoral as unmoral. He had his good Points. ■;; He was nearly always cheerful, had easy and pleasant manners, and was rarely, if ever, spiteful or vindictive.. But, ffs?n-- the other hand, he was incorrigibly . idle, was a hopeless spendthrift, and a most inveterate liar. |Pftfßei? devoid of moral aense, he had no principles and no conscience. Right and wrong appeared to be meaningess words to him, or, if he had. been asked to give •. * definition, he would have said that what was pleasant was right and what • : was unpleasant was wrong. He never y had any qualms of conscience, however •- fir he might lapse from virtue. He might regret being found out, for that generally entailed unpleasantness of some .iind or other; but the moral issues never occurred to him. . How all this hurt and irritated his j father may be left to the imagination. .'He had tried gentle measures and repressive measures, tried kindness and seve|||ntj£:tried moral suasion and tried locking him up in his room, but there appeared to be no moral sense in the lad " "to which he could appeal. As a child i he wocld do the most outrageous things «nd look as innocent as a cherub. .Had the father been left to deal with him alone he might have succeeded in driving some, definite principles into his Kind and heart, but the boy's fond and |Eelf-willed mother spoilt everything in that direction. She knew what was best, : ~: and she had her way. ' ; For the sake of peace Peter Pearson , gave way to her again and again, paid . 1 David's "gambling debts, and advanced' large sums of money to give him fresh . starts, allowed himself to be hoodwinked ' / by David's hypocrisy, and kept hoping .-'or the best when a less hopeful man ■ Would have abandoned him to his fate. ; '.David's sudden and unexpected return _'S from South Africa produced in him a . curious feeling of mingled pleasure and. . 'egret. David was his son and his only , *on. He could not forget that, and his heart w as eager to welcome him, eager, to forget and forgive. He looked handsale, too, and his manner betrayed no $ rj consciousness of wrong-doing. But, on the other hand, he had been ' deceived so often that reason urged cau- --- tion. He doubted the reason alleged for '-~ his return. He was more or less suspicion of his mother. However, if he was •)i leallv wiDing at last to work he should have his chance. He was glad to see that | - •'-«$ was not particularly interested in $ Sophie. ...So the days slipped away and grew ■}. ' into weeks. Sophie was having the time I of her life. The English summer was !■; siore beautiful than anything she had \ *?er dreamt of. She was dropping into I | {English ways with an ease and readiness : - that were a surprise to herself. She made .the acquaintance of a number of girls in and. got invited ouirto I: the neighbourhood, parties and entertainpicnics "and tennis parties and entertainii- pents of various sorts. She read books |||p&the score and practised the piano seve- : *al hours a day. ;. She made excursions . into town by herself, and spent money • Hftcly in clothes and millinery. When 'she had nothing to do she took a book ;'; With her and went out on the heath and ' ;|sat in the : sunshine and lead.' Sometimes sat and dreamt, and wove beautiful

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fancies, and built impossible castles. Life was wonderfully pleasant and full of interest. To all outward seeming she had not a worry or care. • ;,;.;' The Pearsons were uniformly kind to her, especially Mr. Pearson. Had she been his own daughter he could not have been more solicitous about her comfort and well-being. On the first day of every month £50 wera placed in the bank to her account, £20 of which she insisted on paying to Mrs. Pearson for her board and lodging— an amount which the good wortian was nothing loth to receive. It provided her with so much additional pocket-money, of which David received the benefit.

At first she had but the vaguest notion of tho purchasing power of a sovereign, and was genuinely puzzled by a method of paying bills by cheque, but in a few days she understood both, though money as money did not interest her. She manifested no curiosity as to tho amount of her fortune, and it never occurred to her that during the years she was supposed to be dead somebody else might have been using \- the income. For the time being she was quite content to let things drift. What the future might hold for her she did not know, and she tried not to worry. That she was having a good time now there was no denying. Everything was still new and fresh and beautiful. Every day brought some new interest and revealed some fresh possibility. Books were a source of unfailing delight. History and biography, science and philosophy, poetry and fiction, all claimed her attention. She came to tho great stores of English literature with a mind unprejudiced and an imagination unsullied. She had got into a world more wonderful, more varied, more interesting, and more.beautiful than she had ever imagined in her wildest dreams. How rapidlv she grew and developed she had no idea, and with the expansion of her mind and the widening of her outlook there came a fresh beauty to her face. She only existed before, now she lived. She looked back at the slow, monotonous, uneventful days at El Tabra with a species of wonder. She marvelled that she did not die of inanition and , ennui.

And yet, as she" recalled these slowmoving years, she remembered that she had not 'been altogether unhappy. The years were slow and uneventful only by contrast. We do not miss what wo have never known. Now and then when she sat on the heath, and the roar of London came up to her on the fitful wind like the surge of a" distant sea, she thought of the vast, unpeopled desert, its awful stillness, its overwhelming sense of emptiness and desolation. Yet she had loved it, and even thought it beautiful. (To be continued daily.)