THE FOREFRONT OF THE BATTLE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIX, Issue 21167, 27 April 1932, Page 19

THE FOREFRONT OF THE BATTLE.

(COPyniCUT.)

SPLENDIDLY-TOLD STORY OF GREAT HUMAN INTENSITY.

CHAPTER Xlll.—(Continued.) David gripped his sun's shoulder. " You don't know what you're saying! This has been a shock to you. 1 would have saved you if I could. But when you begin to think tilings over more calmly—" "Calmly! How can 1' think calmly? Irma means everything to mc—and I've lost her. And Jve loved you. llow can I over trust anvono again? How can .1 ?" The boy sobbed. David stood gripping Philip's shoulder. Tho boy was staring straight before him and his fuco was grave, and twisted with pain. When Paula had gone ho bad thought that his cup was full. 110 had been wrong, llis sou's reproaches hurt liiin as nothing before had ever hurt him. The boy's suffering went to David's heart. "Steady, Phil!" said David. "You haven't lost Irma yet. If sho loves you " The boy raised his faco. " Don't you see," ho cried. Don't you sea that I can't persuade her to marry mo now ? Sho is fond of her father as I have been fond of you. Ho won't hear of our marriage. And he's right! " David walked up and down, with his hands clasped behind him, and biting his lip. Philip's sobs ceased, and ho rose to his feet, palo and shame-faced. "I'm sorry, Pater," he said. I've been a bit of a swine. Thought only of myself, but——" He held out his hand and David gripped it eagerly. " It's .1 who am sorry, Phil. I've been a rotter, and you have to suffer. P«ut, believe mo, I hero must be some way of " " I can't oppose old Grant now," he said. "If I could make the money to support Irma—But what's the use? Grant's objections aro just." "Just? Because I did this thing is that any reason why " "In his eyes it's a reason why I shouldn't marry his daughter. I shan't ask her to marry mo without the old man's consent. And he'll never give that! " j | Slowly Philip picked up his light coat ' aud put it on. His face was palo and set. David, feeling a barrier rising between his son and himself, once more held out his hand. " Philip! " " Good night, rater. I can let myself out." The boy shook his father's hand coldly, and walked out of the room. A moment later David heard the hall door closo with a bang. CHAPTER XIV. Dr. Grant was in his consulting-room when his newly-engaged housekeeper, old I Mrs. Mclntyre, came to him. j " There's a gentleman to see you, doctor," sho said. " A Sir David Teesdale. He said he wished to seo you on a matter of the " " Teesdale! " Grant swung round in his chair and I stared at the grey-haired woman. " To see you on a matter of the greatI est importance," Mrs. Mclntyre finished | imperturbably. Tho doctor fingered the stained red tie beneath his straggling beard. | "Is Miss Irma in the house, Mrs. ; Mclntyre ? " " Xo, doctor. She went out an hour ago." "Oh! All right. Show the gentleman in here." W lien David entered the consultingroom the old doctor was standing, very erect, in front of the empty fire-place. " Good morning, doctor," said David. " It's good of you to seo me." "I take it that you have something important to tell me? My time is of a certain " "It is important." said Davitf. " You don't mind if I sit down? There are one or two things I wish fo explain." Again the doctor nodded. David seated I ! himself in a shabby armchair, and put his hat and gloves on the floor. Grant | watched him grimly, giving his visitor no j kind of help. He noted that David was I pale, and there was every sign of lassi- : ludo and dejection in his movements. i I " I liavo enme," said David, "on behalf of my boy. But first I had l*>:ter • tell you that my wife has left me—three ! days ago." | " Left you ? " the doctor stared, j " Left me for good." | A slight change came over tho doctor's face; thero was a little gleam of comprc- | hension in his grey eyes. " Then she " " She believed you that night. Yes, 1 j could not lie to her. You were right j there. After you had gone 1 confessed j the truth, and she left me." The doctor turned away from the other I man for a moment. There was a little : pause. Then the doctor drew back a ; chair at his desk and sat down. He : looked at David. i " Well," ho said. " And why have i you come to me ? " I " It's about my bov," he said. "My boy, and your daughter. I have told : Philip the truth. God knows whether I i have not/ lost him as well as my wife! | But that is not my point. These two j young people love one, another. My j crime has nothing to do with Philip, but he won't ask Irma to marry him without your consent." " And what do you want me to do? " David stared at tLe older man, and then flushed a deeper rod. " Good God, man! don't you think you've punished me enough ? 1 have lost, my wife, and the affection and regard of my son. That is just. I deservo all I get. But why should you wish to punish the innocent? " " He's your son; he's a Teesdale." The old man rose to his feet and began to pace the carpet. David watched the dour old figure with mixed feelings of anxiety, humility and antipathy. " Philip is a decent boy, doctor. He'll make your daughter happy." "On whoso money?" Grant swung round upon his visitor. "On your money? Understand I'm not touching a penny of the pension that comes from you, and you might, as well stop sending those cheques. And I won't have Irma living upon your money either." " Tho money is honestly made. You know that, Grant. You earned your pension, and there's no reason on earth why you shouldn't accept." " I won't touch a penny. Knowing what I do about you, I won't touch your money. And Irma won't live on your money, either. David felt anger rising up within him but he fought it to a standstill. For Philip's sake ho must keep his temper, and humour this fanatical old man. " All right," lie said. But your daughter need not live upon my money ,if she marries Philip. The boy is young,

By MARTEN CUMBERLAND. Author of * Behind the Scenes," "Loaded Dice/' "The Perilous Way," etc., eta

but ho is n. clever artist. lie's lately niado a speciality of painting .screens, and lie's beginning (o sell liicni at a good price, lie's also 11oiij{j;——" Screens! " I lie old man snorted f-on temptuously. It's honest, work and lieaut ifill work," relunied David. "If you don't understand such things—Anyhow, my point is that Philip can earn his own living, lie can support your (laughter: not luxuriously at first. If you insist on my not helping tin-in they may have a hard struggle at fust, luil——" " A strugglfi wouldn't do 'cm any harm. Do 'cut good. Thousand times better than luxury and idleness." The old man still paced the room. David watched him closely. " I am appealing to you," he said, "not only on behalf of my boy, but on > behalf of your daughter. I am convinced that, her happiness is at stake. She loves Philip." As the old man made no answer, David changed his tactics. "You have punished me, Grant," he went on. " You have punished mo very severely. "I've lost everything in the world that I value. But I'm not complaining. I'm not here to whine; and I don't eav that you have been unjust. 1 deserve all I've got. Do what you like with me. But if you continue to the point of persecuting my son, I shall begin to think that you arc vindictive." " Vindictive! " The old man stopped short in his pacing, and glared at the other. " Yes," said David, calmly. "It is ono thing to be a. righteous man chastising the sinner whose sin you have discovered. It is quite another matter to carry on a fend, to harbour hatred against an innocent boy. if there's anything in your religion or views that dictates such a thing, then I'm- sorry tor you." Tlio old man sat down at his desk again. He picked up a paper-knife and gazed at it with unseeing eyes. " There's something in what you say, Teesdale," he admitted. " I'vo got nothing against your boy, so long as ho doesn't oblige my daughter to live on your money." " Then will you withdraw your opposition to their marriage?" asked David, quickly. " That's all I ask. Let them know that you are ready to countenance their marriage. My boy will never urge your daughter to marry against your wishes, but " " I might agree." The doctor interrupted tlio other. lie pointed at David with the steel paperknife. " Look you here, David Teesdale. I've no objection to your boy, since Irma seems to want him. I don't like the way he gets his living—painting screens and such like —but maybe he's as honest as another. He looks a nice boy, I admit that. Now, if 1 withdraw my opposition and tell Jrrua and your son what you want mc to tell 'em, it can only be on certain conditions." David nodded. The old man's fierce grey eyes were on him but he met them direct \f " \a,nvo the conditions." " First the boy must stand on his own feet. lie must earn his living, and support my daughter without any help from you." " That may bo hard, not only on the boy, but on your daughter, if—" " It's a condition 1 insist upon, Teesdale." " All right. And the other condition?" " You must make a public confession of your sin." " What?" David jumped to his feet, and stared at the oLlicr. " You are not serious ?" " I'm quite serious. You havo lied, and lied. You made out that I was lying, that I was a poor, daft fool, with a bee in my bonnet. Very well, now wc must have the truth." " This is just egoism—personal vanity. Good God. man! how do you think I can confess a thing pride that dictates a condition of that sort." Two red spots crept into the old doctor's check, and his eyes flashed. "That's a lie, Teesdale! It's not vanity; it's justice. You think you can break the laws of God and man with impunity. You think you have suffered too much already because you have lost the woman you sinned for, because your son turns away from you. But that is just. The whole world should turn away from you, as they havo turned from better men than you. The truth must be known. You must expiate your crime. If you refuse—well, I will seo that Irma never marries your boy." It was David's turn now to pace the shabby carpet. He did so, with his head bowed, and his hands tightly interlocked behind his back. " But how is the thing to be done?" lie said at last. " If I tell—" " 1 can arrange all that. There arc tlio newspapers I hat—" " Newspapers ? You mean to say (lie papers would publish a story of that sort " One paper would, and you will sign a confession which I can show the editor, who is a friend of mine. And the point is—" "Some dirty, socialistic nig!" sneered David. "A paper that, stands for the truth, and righteousness umid corruption," thundered the old man. " A paper that doesn't care how lich a man is; that will expose him, if lie's a sinner, whatever his worldly position may be!" The doctor went on, in a high-pitched voice, as though ho were addressing a meeting. David still paced the floor. He recognised that he was dealing with a fanatic—a man of single purpose, and deadly narrowness of ideas. There was no pity for him here. In the old man's altitude there might be an injured vanity, there might bo sheer vindict iveness against a man wealthier and seemingly happier than himself. But if these motives prompted Giant, they did so entirely without his knowing it. Quite sincerely, he imagined himself to bo chastising sin; he looker! upon himself as the appointed instrument. lie was just doing his duty. "But if this story appears in some paper," David said. " Who will believe it. " They will believe," said Grant. " The truth always prevails. Besides, you will not contradict tlio report when questioned. You will lake no action against the paper. You dare not, for I shall hold your confession, and it will be used, it necessary, to defend the paper." " I see." David smiled bitterly. " You have thought all this out." " Yes, I have thought it out." The doctor opened a drawer in his desk, and took out some sheets of paper. " Well ?" he inquired. " What is it going to be? Do you accept or refuse my terms David hesitated for a fraction of a second. He would bo putting himself into the power of this fanatic. What tlio consequences might be ho could not judge or foresee. Then Philip's pale, agonised face rose before, him. Ho thought of his son's muffled sobs. Philip loved Irma. They were young, and all their lives were before them, whilst David —• He shrugged his shoulders. Tie. had lost Paula, and in losing her he had lost everything. What did any other misfortune matter, in comparison with that great loss? " All right," ho said. " I agree to everything you wish." (To be continued daily.) Absorbingly interesting, nut horitative, historical. "Where the White Man Treads Across the Pathway of tlio Maori." Herald Office, Auckland; 9s, post free. '