HIS DEAREST FOES.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXVI, Issue 10042, 9 January 1909, Page 3 (Supplement)

HIS DEAREST FOES.

(By I. A. R. Wyiie. )

Never talk to me of marriage, and its failures and trials," said Mrs Wilfred Calhoun, fanning herself. '•That kind of thing is all nonsense. 'l'he people who have failures and trials mostly deserve them. They don't enter into marriage with the right spirit. Forbearance, consideration,—that is what is needed—and no quarrels at any price. It's not good to boast, I know, but my dear pessimistic people, lok at Wilfred. and myself. Twenty-two years married and I can hardly remember a dark hour — except when Gerald had the measles. Isn't that "a record! - She looked around on her thre comDanions with such an overflow of humor and gaiety in her bright hazel eyes that two at least laughed heartily. The third, Colonel Calhoun, leaning against tho veranda balustrade, contented himself with a quiet smile. '\N'ow I come to think of it," Judge Andrews began "n a tone of consideration, "I have an idea that somewhere in our respected mother-country they give a nnzs ham. or something, to the mo6t exemplary couple. There is a chance for you, Mrs Calhoun." "I surrender" my rights to earthly reward," was the mock, serious answer as she held out her hand in farewell. "I am quite content to be azL example to you all." The two men took a> laughing leave, and went down the steps and across the compound. Husband and wife watched them disappear, both evidently deep in thoughts of very different kind. The Emiie had died from the colonel's face, leaving it with its accustomed expression of grave kindness. He looked considerably older than his wife, though the difference in their ages was in reality slight. The thick hair was already turning gray. There were -deep line 3, either of thought or of anxiety, across the forehead and under the keen eyes. Only the mouth had retained its youthfulness. It was a curiously sensitive mouth, possibly too sensitive, a direct contradiction to the powerful cleft chin. Esme Calhoun continued to fan herself. The ghost of laughter still fingered in her eyes and about her lips. Calhoun turned and studied her expression with an eagerness mingled with admiration. He knew that 6he was the most beautiful woman in a station renowned for lovely women. Younger members of her sex acknowledged openly that they were jealous of the wonders time had worked upon her face. The years had not destroyed or withered. They had refined, rounded, perfected what had already, twenty years ago, been accounted admirable. "Yes, you are right, Eame," he said,

breaking the silence. "We have lived j fairly peacefully together, haven't we? The years have been, wonderfully unclouded." t She started! as though she had forgotten his presence. Obviously, her c thoughts had drifted far away from the c last topic of conversation. c "Oh, dear, yes; awfully unclouded, I awfully happy—except for those horrible measles. Do you remember how frightened' I was? Wilfred, have you seen Gerald c lately? The boy hasn't bean in for days. J What is he doing?" "I don't know." The colonel came t and stood behind her, leaning his elbows i an the back of her chair. "The greatest t happiness I can. have is the knowledge that you are happy, little woman," he i went oil. "And you have bean, haven't \ you?" Ho was playing with the dark, i curly hair, and she fidlgeted' restlessly. "Of course. I have just said so." Then, with a quick, upward move of the head, she smiled into his face. "Who wouldn't be, with such a placid, goodnatured husband? Not that I don't take my share of credit for the smooth sailing, you know. I flatter myself I manage you admirably. You have been happy, too. Don't deny it." "I don'-t. Who wouldn't be, with such an exceptional wife?" he said, < parodying her manner with quiet humor. 1 There was a moment's silence. "And j next month we shall' be in England) for j a whole year," he continued. "It will be our first real holiday since our honeymoon." £ Mrs Calhoun's arched foot beat a tattoo < of indication on the stone floor. "Will red, ihow can you be so horribly c plebian? The very word honeymoon sets my teeth on «d <je. Besides, it makes me c feel so old." He took no offence at her t protest—it would have been absurd had i he done so, for the tone of her voice J was kindly and irresistibly gay. 1 "What will Gerald do without me?" i she demanded abruptly. "Couldn't you i get him leave, or something, and take him with us?" i C-alhoun shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Gerald must do with- i out you, for onoe. X shall- ask some one 1 to keep ail eye on him." He paused, r and then added, more to himself than to j ber: "This is our year. What used we \ to call it .in our young and foolish days? ( A good time! We are going to get rid s of Indian fevers and tempers, audi pick 1 up a few lost years. It will be good- to j have a breath of a thick London fog, if < only for old time's sake." Mrs Calhoun shivered. ] "If only Gerald were coming, too!" ■ she lamented. i "Xever mind. I will try to make you j happy, dear." He bent suddenly a&d ] kissed her. Mrs Calhount laughed- outright, and ] the fjint shadow that gathered on her t forehead vanished. ; "You dear, sentimental fellow! _ I , never knew anybody, at your sober time of life, to keep up such an enthusiasm of affection. In this heat, too! • There, . don't bother me, but tell me why Gerald can't get leave." '•Does it bother you eo Terv much? , "What? About Gerald? Of course it ■ does." "Xo. That wasn't quite what I meant. Still, it doesn't matteT. Esme don't | any more about Gerald's leave. It isn't possible." • • , "Why not?" , The colonel sighed. ; "He has only been in the regiment two ' ' years. Those two years, alas, are not ' marked by any event, which would entitle him to any special reward or fa- » Tor - n Mrs Calhoun rose, in a storm of indigdignation. "Isn't that too bad? Because you hire sowed your wUH oats" and he hasn't, yoa are just as severe on him as tHough he had never had' any to sow. Oh —here he . is! Gerald, my der.r boy,, "where havs you been all this time!" : n - A young man had at that moment driven up the drive at a leisurely trot. Without answering the greeting, he dismounted, flung the reins over a poet, and at an equally leisurely pace ascended the Bteps. "There was nothing on, so I thought I'd come over for an hour," he explained ffraciously-- a day like. this, wasn't it!' l "Yoa might- have comfe Before, the colonel-pbcerradi

,Slrs Calhoun frowned". '■■■ "Oh, don't, Wilfred'! You_canH. see the boy without saying- something disagreeable. Gerald, come here, dear. that chair* You,can -forget your .-dignity'for a few'minu'tes..'. There is a "■;■' footstool. You 'can sit there;- the- way •you did when you were a little boy.' You nav» a headacherr-I'm Vnre. you hays. Take off that absurd helmet, and let me stroke your forehead. After you had measles you used to say it soothed you. ;2fow—can you be quiet." Gerald Calhoun obeyed, though with none too good-grace; and, seating himself at his mother's feet, allowed her to pass her white hand to and fro,- through his close, curly hair. He was ft goodlooking boy, bearing a slight, but unsatisfactory resemblance to both his parents. He had his father's mouth without his father's chin, his mother's eyes without their steadfastness. What was (rood in his face was already marred by the faint but unmistakable- signs of selfindulgence. Added to this, there was, just now, a disagreeable uneasiness in his manner which did- not pass wholly unnoticed. "You are worried," Mrs Calhoun said, tending over him. "Has anything gone Wrong?' She kissed him. Something had completely changed her. The careless laughter was gone. She had grown gentler, and the gay light in her eyes had deepened into profound womanly tenderness. The tall fellow at her feet might have been a child whom she was seeking to protect" from harm and sorrow. '■> \ Gerald shrugged his shoulders.' Both? her caress and question seemed to have been unwelcome. The colonel Eaw the movement as lie had seen the change in' his wife's face, and he turned away,'his face Elightly contracted. * "Tell us why you have come—perhaps that will lead us to the source of the trouble," he said. A dark flush sDread' over the younger man's face. "You bother me the minute I come near you," he began sulkily. Mrs Calhoun put her hand over his lips. "Hush! Wilfred, go away. If there is any trouble, Gerald will tell me." "If there is any trouble, Gerald; must confide also in me. As his. father, I have at least the right to know." The colonel turned again to his wife and son. He spoke quietly, ips was his wont, but few people cared to trespass on his quietness. Gerald fidgeted. "Oh—it's the same old thing—" "Money?" .- He nodded. "Betting, I suppose?" "Bother—yes !! It all comes of laying on a horse that you know nothing about —" - "It all comes of betting at all. How much i 6 it?" There was a moment of painful hesitation. Mrs Calhoun's hand tightened on her son's arm. "Three hundred pounds," came the almost inaudible answer. The colonel's hand went up suddenly to his head, but he said nothing. He was unusually self-controlled, and that slight movement expressed'more,than an outburst from another man. Mrs Calhoun sprang up and went to his side. She slipped her arm through his and looked up into his face. "Wilfred—don't be angry—don't reoroach the poor boy. Remember,. when one is young how foolish he is—one doesn't realise —" The colonel patted her hand. "I'm not angry. As to reproaches—of what use are they? His punishment will be hard enough." "What do you mean—" cried the lad in accents of alarm. "Gerald, I told you last time youi had strained our resources to their limits. I can do nothing more. You must sell your horses—everything you have. Your commission—must go. too." Gerald sprang to his feet. For the first time the full seriousness of the Bit-na-tion seemed to dawn upon him. "Sir—" he began, and then stopped short, an instinctive wisdom telling him

snort, ail instinctive wisuuiii icumg mm to leave his cau6o in other hands. Mrs Calhoun was clinging to her husband's arm. "Wilfred—what are you Baying? You can't mean it. It would be the ruin of his life—of all his hopea—" Then, calling up every charm iu her woman's power—"And of my hopes," she added. He flinched. "Dear, if I could do anything, I would do it. Heaven knows that, to shield you and the boy, I—" She interrupted him with an eager gesture. Her quick mind was already plungine into the future, seeking escape from the threatening danger. 1 "Think, Wilfred! There must be some means. Try, oh, 'do try! I know it is for the last time. Gerald, darling, say it is for the last time!" "Of course," was the sullen answer. "I was a stupid fool—" Mrs Calhoun cared neither for his promises nor explanations. Her one thought was for his safety. "Let me see. What have I got? That diamond pendant you rave me, Wilfred, and my engagement-ring—what are they worth? If I sold them—" The colonel started round. "Have the decenecy to refuse such, an offer," he said sternly. "Your mother has borne humiliation and sacrifice enough for you. Be a man and take your punishment." Gerald shrugged his shouldera. "Very well. But if I am kicked out of the regiment, I 6hall know what to do," he said significantly. Mrs Calhoun uttered a startled exclamation. "Gerald—how can you? Don't be bo CTuel!" She caught the young man by the arm and drew him forward 1 so that father and son almost touched. "And you, Wilfred, think if anything happened to my boy! You 6ay you only caTe for my happiness. It is my happiness that is at stake now." Then a sudden light flashed! across her pale face. ~ , "My dear, I know! How et-upid of us! Wilfred, don't claim your leave. We caai stay here—you will have full pay, and' there is the little capital we put aside for England. Everything will be all right. Oh, yes; I know the doctor said you ought to go —but doctors are so fussy. Audi you have been much better lately, haven't you? And the olimate is superb, just now. Say that will dodo say yes!" . Mother and son looked at htm with expressions of mingled delight and The colonel lad slipped his arm 'gemtly free from his wife's embrace. He seemed in the last few minutes to have aged, to have grown grayer andl thinner. "Yes," .he said at last, ' 'it's true. I had not thought of that Perhaps, after all, we can manage. Clever little woman !" He smiled faintly. "It shall be. as you 6ay," He saw their glances- of thankfulness. He turned to his son with a, new impressiveness. "This is your last chance—your very last. .And remember this—our honor, the honor of the regiment, your mother's happiness, and much more which only the future can renreal, lies in your liands. Remember !" Mrs Oalhoun gave her son no chance to reply. She was too vivacious, too full of life and- energy, to allow shadows of escaped misfortune to hover long over iher horizon. "Now —that's all right," she said with a sigh- of satisfaction. "Oome, Gerald, you've got to have your scolding from me yet, and meanwhile father can brood over ways and means."- The colonel heard their laughter as they went into the house. He heard; Gerald's half-whis-pered, "Mother, you .wonderful woman!' and her gay response. Then, he was alone, - strangely conscious of the -weight of years and of a gulf separating him from these two easy-living -beings. They laughed, and he could not ikugh witih thcin. lie bore a- 'burden; which they could not share. They hadi left him—and his .. memory, drifted back to the golden days when she, at least, would not have left him, when ihis presence, his tenderness, had been as necessary to" her- as tihe sunshiny to a flower, when a shadow of pain in Ms eyes had called up the reflected shadow in her own*. - .-. ■ ' - - He: threw hack his shoulder#. These 1 were -tie .golden days. WisS'mem know that they are fleeting. BraTo mtftt accept sh« fact sqa&clusgly.

'■\. \ .~" m. * Some one called him from below the ! * .Yerandalk ■.".'" ' \ .'.'"■'-. . ■* "Colonel, sorry to disturb your, medir tations. .Have"you a moment to spare?" a ' Cblonsl Caihoim started and thea.held y .oat a friendly hand to; theman ascenda ing the steps. ■•" "Of course, doctor. "" Forgive my ab- • eent-mindedaess. I was deep in ramiois- * cences. Gray hairs and sentimentality • 6eem. to go together; What can. Ido for you?" 1 ' "Nothing—ekcept with me God-speecL - The black fiends are 1 on. the war-path ) again, at X , and lam ordered' to i the front. When I "get back—if I ever -■ do—you will be safe in Knglknd, lucky - man." - The colonel shook his head. "No," He said; "I shall still be here." I "You are going to see the fun, first?" i "I am not going away at all." The impetuous little doctor took the colonel by the arm and shook him. i "What nonsense are you talking?" i "I'm not talking nonsense. Our plans haver-been, altered." "It is impossible." The doctor assumed a sudden medical severity. "You remember whai I said'. If you value your life,'-you will give yourself a long rest andr change. I forbid you to remain here." "The fiat has gone forth. Not even your commando can avail." "Alan, don't laugh like that. Be serious. You. are risking your life—r" "You are too serious. You lay too ■great importance on, my existence. Be- ' sides l —we all die some . day." "I shall speak to Mrs Oalhoun. If she knew the truth—•" The -colonel ;turued; an Ihim with a stern_ gesture. ■"You-will,not tell her," he said. "I forbid it. If you value my friendship. DO you understand? Nothing. Hush! Here she comes!" Mrs Calhoun had returned, followed by Gerald', whose countenance expressed a lively satisfaction, thanks to the sapphire ring in. his pocket. She greeted the-doctor; with her usual gay sincerity. "I suppose Wilfred has been telling you that we contemplate open revolt, doctor? Dreadful 1 , isn't it? A direct defiance of authority. You are not going to courtmartial us, are you? But, seriously, doesn't Wilfred look better? Now, doctor, don't be obstinate. You know he does." The doctor opened his mouth to Tcply; then he saw the colonel's face and closed it again. ■ Mrs Calhoun turned..l.to her husband. "Have you quite decided? Is everything settled!?" she asked. The colonel smiled. "Everything—quite settled," he said. The doctor took an abrupt leave. He was miserable and angry. He hated Mrs Oalhoun and hetr good-looking son. It was a very unjust hatred, no doubt, but why could sho not see for herself? Where was her instinct? The doctor did not realise that an. instinct can be overworked, and that Mrs Calhoun's, just now, was engaged elsewhere. He looked! back once as he crossed the compound. Mrs Oalhoun was standing where the last rays of the evening sun fell upon her, marking foer out in the gathering darkness, lighting up her serene and matured 'beauty. She had slipped her arm through Gerald's and was smiling up into his face. Colonel Calhoun stood alone in the shadow. Raja AHem-Shah had a weakness -for all things English. His dress, his manners, and his language were so AngloSaxon that only his color and an occasional outburst of extreme absolutism betrayed bis real origin. As a final l touch to his European education, he was now •being initiated! into the art and mysteries of bridge, under the able guidance of Judge Andrews, the chief commissioner, and Lieutenant Roberts. The two officers ihad drawn a table into the coolest corner of the clubhouse, and were hard at work on their self-imposed task. Gerald Oalhoun had lounged in a few minutes previously, and stood leaning against the wall, watching the game with

a lazy, somewhat contemptuous indifference. .. The raja proved himself & startlmgly apt pupil, but a game without any other object tlia.n the Konor of winning did not suit his sporting instincts. At the end . of--the...third rubber, which —to the surprise of his teachers—had fallen to him, he flung the cards upon the, table. "It is a, good igame," he said—"excellent, in, fact; but it needs point. . Gambling in the strict sense of the word is, I know, forbidden. But, gentlemen, who will play me for this?" He put his hand to has tie and drew out a magnificent diamond pin. "Ah, but I forgot—" he added with an amiable smile, "you gentlemen wear no jewels. There must be a. prize on the opposite side—for the excitement of the thing." He paused expectantly. lieutenant Roberts laughed. "I don't go in for that sort of thing myself, your highness," hj« said. "My cmef worldly possession at the present moment is a broken-winded polo-pony. As that is hardly w. equivalent for your pin, I must withdraw." There was a moment's hesitation. The raja was -visibly disappointed, and a little hurt. Gerald Oalhoun mads a sudden move. "Your highness—" ha began, then stopped. He had changed color rapidly, ana his manner suggested a sharp conflict of emotions. The others looked at him with surprise, the Taja with, some hope. ""Well, lieutenant, have you anything to suggest?" he asb£d. Gerald ■ did not answer immediately. He was fumbling at his tunic with a 'hand that had lost its steadiness. "Only this," he said curtly, and placed ta fine sapphire ring beside the pin. "It's not an equivalent, either, but I happened to have it by me—perhaps it will do." The raja nodded delightedly. "Of course, of course. Sit down, lieutenant. Cut for deal." The chief commissioner and the judge were all eagerness; only Roberts' face hadi grown grave. He looked at Gerald, Btudyjng the flushed features with an intentness which the other seemed to feel and resent. Calhoun looked! up, and returned the gaze with defiant haughtiness. Roberto learned forward. "Oalhoun," he said in his ear, "you were pretty hadly ihit again the other day. Think what you are doing. Don't ■be rash—for every one's sake." Gerald jerked impatiently with his shoulder. "Leave me to mind my own affairs," ■he said insolently. Roberts drew back. He was a hottempered young man, and not fond of rebuffs _of any sort. He stood at one side and watched the -game, which was now in full" swing. A new tone had come into the play. The light-hearted goodfellowship was gone. Something passionate, reckless, and desperate ram like an electric current from one man to the other. It was scarcely the love of gain, at any rate not in the three elder men, who were all rich enough to be indifferent. The feeling seemed to ihave its source in Gerald, .who sat with clenched teeth and scowling brows. He made no remark, either of satisfaction or anger; but every movement betrayed l an ill-re-strained violence and irritation. ■ The game proceeded. Each side had one rubber to its credit. The raja, thanks to a streak of good! fortune aiid his own skill;- was rapidly winning the third. Lieutenant . Roberts never took his eyes ' from GeraJd's face. ' Be saw the increasing agitation,' the nervous fumbling with the cardis, the unsteady, shining eyes. Suddenly he' took a. step forward, and put his hand) upon the cards. " - ; "Gentlemen," he said, "the game cannot proceed. Lieutenant Oalhoun., you were cheating!" Three men; started to their feet with exclamations of amazement and disbelief. Only Gerald remained seated- Roberts saw his jaw fell. Ait expression of fear crept-into his white face, and : -into his eyes, which were fixed beyond his companions. ' Roberts 'turned instinctively. Cblonel Calhoun stood in the open doorway. IV There: was a> momentfe petrified silence before the colonel spoke. ' "What is the -trouble, lieutenant ' Roberta?" be asked. His voice was tmrauadly .quiet—tie> las! •Syllabi#" sag scarcely audible,

Roberts put fods hand to his collar. He felt as if he were going to suffocate. He : hadl-.acted in. a moment of impulse, spurred on by indigriatiohi and contempt. As he looked into the gray, drawn fae» of the man' who represented for him. the highest soldierly ideal, ;.«;> adckening sens* of horror - and' remorsa crapt over him. E« realised too lata.what his denunciation' meaat. Ha ramembenad the baautifrul woman to whom this misarabla, boy was the -very heart and lif». He laughed unsteadily. '"■ "We were teaching his highness bridge, colonel," he stammered. "They were having a rubber—and—l was fooling—" It was the first big lie of his life., He grew crimson, and his eyes sank. "Ha felt instinctively that no one believed him, but he could not have acted otherwise; It was not for him to deal the final blow. The raja replaced his tie-pin carefully. He flattered himself that .he could; acf like a gentleman under the most trying circumstances. "It is a, stupid l game," he said with a pronounced drawl, "and Lieutenant Calhoun plays too well for me. Come, ■gentlemen." With an elaborate bow he went out into the club gardens, followed by the other three men. Roberts made no attempt to look the colonel" in the face. Ho slunk out last, leaving father and son.' alone. * There was a moment of silence. The colonel went over to the table and' examined the cards, turning them over with slow, painful care. "I—heard," he said. The boy made no answer. The elder man's frozen calm was more awful than the most awful outburst of anger. The colonel picked up the ring. "This is your mother's," he said. "You stole it?" Gerald set' his teeth. "I am not .a thief," be said sullenly. The colonel lifted ihis eyebrows. "She gave it you, then." . He put the ring on his finger and looked at it long and intently. Then he turned and went toward the door. "Come!" he said. They walked: side by" side along the dusty road. The colonel's lips were set. Only at the gate of their bungalow he stopped and put his hand to his head with a .gesture of intense wearisome. "God knows if I have acted rightly, justly," he said. "I heard!—and I said nothing. I let that poor young fellow lie to me —out of pity for me, his colonel. I gave you your chance —because of your mother." He paused, audi added under his breath: "I pray I should have done as much for any other mother's son." Gerald's lips curladl faintly. He was beginning to wonder why he had been afraid. His father was, after all, getting old and sentimental. "I give you your last chance," the colonel went on, "for her sake, and to spare her 6hame. I have just received intelligence that the communications between here and X—have been cut off. The general has given me orders to send an officer with an important message respecting reinforoemente. It had .been my intention to tell the general that the task was an impossibility. Instead, I shall at once inform 'him that I have given it to you—my son." Gerald started violently. A reawakened sense of impending disaster rushed over him. "What do you mean? The whole district between here and X— is in open revolt. A man could not come through twice alive —" He broke off, staring into the other's set faoe. "Father—you—i you mean—that they should kill me—" No answer. The colonel's hand was suppressed to his side, but his expression remained fixed and immovable. "Father —you cannot! Remember how young I am—l have never, been under fire—" The colonel turned on him. He had drawn himself to his full height, and his eyes 6hone with the power that lay hidden behind his outwaTd calm. "Lieutenant Calhoun," he said, "you will leave here at ten o'clock to-night. Untri'l then you will remain in your room. If all goes well, you should be here

again- to-morrow morning. If not, I haw at least given you the chance to redeem your honor. See that you do so. ' He motioned! Gerald to walk on 1 in front, paying no heed to the frantic gesture of appeal, contemptuously ignoring the white face and trembling lips. He followed slowly, still upright, 6till with the set, iron features. But he stumbled in the 'gathering darkness, and his hand went out as though seeking support Esme Calhoun was seated at the table, writing, when he came in. She looked ■up, and a shadow of disappointment crossed' her face. "Isn't Gerald with you?" she asked. "He promised to come." The colonel crossed the room and' stood at her side. He laid his hand on her shoulder: unconsciously he leaned heavily. m "Esme —" he began. He did- not continue. He could not tell her of the new burden he carried. Surely it was not necessary. Twenty years ago he had never needed to tell her. She had understood instinctively—instinctively she had found the wound, and with her woman's tenderness healed it. Surely it would be seen now, when his pride, his honor, and his strength were undermined and shaken. . "Dear—do take your hand away—it is ' so heavy. And do finish your sentences. That's such a tiresome habit of yours." She spoke irritably, and she knew it. It was a good thing, she thought, that, Wilfred never cared. In any case, she could make it up to him another time. ' "Have you seen Gerald?" she went on, breaking the silence. He took a letter from the table and handed it to her. "Give this to him," he said. "He : knows what he has to do. You will find 1 him in his room." She pushed her writing suddenly, aside and looked up at him." Something_in his voice and words alarmed her. He smiled . faintly. Her instinct was awake now—but not for him. "Why in his room —why not here? Is ' anything wrong? Why do you look like ' that?" ; He did not answer immediately. His first desire was to shield her from the knowledge of her son's dishonor. _ He knew that she was, above all things, honorable. "Dear, do not a6k. Gerald will want to see you." "And you?" . "I have seen him," he answered grimly. 1 She turned the sealed packet over in , her hands, hesitating. He knew there were, a thousand questions trembling on her lips—questions he could not answer. "Please!" he said authoritatively. She went slowly toward the door. There 1 she turned, and, obeying an impulse, lie turned also, and loaning 'heavily against 1 the table, faced her. one looked strange- ■ ly like her son in that moment, and he - read—or thought he read —doubt, disL trust, and a smothered, sullen defiance in > her eyes. The curtains fell behind her, i and he heard her footsteps echo along the i corridor leading to Gerald's room. He seated himself by the table and i shaded his face with his hand. He was I alone. His imagination carried 1 him in > spirit to his wife's side. , He heard her I endearing words, -he saw her infinite ten- - derness—things which had once been his and were no mors. The~Vague, gnawing I Tiunger of the last unsatisfied years had 5 grown to a definite suffering. The fair i edifice of his life had crumbled ioto a . chaos of shattered ideals. His son, his s son's honor, his wife's love—all gone. - Only himself remained, still upright, still 5 supported by inward' integrity and the '. knowledge that he had done his be6t. y. So he 6at, apparently unmoved, his face x a mask of cold, steadfast purpose, until , . the curtains were pushed back and Esme r entered. She came to his side and caufrht • his haiid from his face. The movement s was rough, almost violent... r "Wilfred!",she cried. " Wilfred!" s He looked at her steadily; - " "Well?" r * "Gerald has told me—where you have ordered him.: It may mean death. Wilfred, it. is not true —you did not mean it?" - He nodded, e "Wilfred l —it is not possible—our son! Do yort know what you are doing? You it are killing me—my happiness. Have you become a machine—a stone? Have you it no heart?" "God kgftWß—yee," ~

"Then you cannot— Send some one • else —send no one!" , "That is out of the question." . " "He is ray son. I forbid it." Colonel » Calhoun rose to his feet. He tried to J take her hands, but sho drew back, shrink- » ing from him.. "He is also my son. It must ba. It - is for the best. Esme, can't you trust - me?" - r She threw back her head, "No!" she said. -• He turned away. She followed him, , forcing him to face her. : "Your love for me is a lie," she said ' .in white anger. "It is nothing but a s selfish pride. And Gerald—l believe you l. hate him!" I She faltered, and turned aside in sullen ■ misery. There was a brief silence. Cali houn drew the ring from his finger and held it out to her. She saw that his hand trembled, and smiled scornfully, r "This is yours," he said. • "Gerald l —gave it back?" He made no answer. Tor one instant she held tho ring in the palm of her hand, staring at it. X'Ucn, with a wild, broken sob, she flung it violently on the table. 'You have sacrificed Gerald —I can never forgive you!" she said, and left him. Colonel Calhoun picked the rinx up auu placed it quietly on his finger. i o remembered that the day he had given_ it her she had kissed it in her impulsive way. "I lore it, since it is from you," she had said. "I shall never part with it—never!" He laughed aloud. All that was over. The last faint reflection of. a chimerical happiness had vanished. Nothing remained but a short span of life, his work, and his duty. He seated himself again, and wrote briefly to his general: "Lieutenant Calhoun has undertaken the task, and leaves within a few hours. I trust he will acquit himself honorably." Such' were the concluding sentences. Then he sealed the letter and despatched it by his servant. His manner wa6 once more quiet and grave. There was no outward sign of the conflict within. Thus evening wore to night. The colonel looked at his watch. It was pastten. The bungalow was hushed in silence. Gerald must have already started. Yet, there had been no clatter oi homes' hoofs outside, no bustle of departure—always the same unbroken quiet. A vague uneasiness fell like a chill over his thoughts. He listened intently. He thought he heard his wife moving in her room. From Gerald's room, of course, there was no sound—and yet— He listened again. Then with two strides he had reached to door and flung it open. Absolute darkness greeted him. He ran baeic, fetched the lamp, and entered, holding the light above his head. In an instant his eyes took in the scene, and as though in his agony he would have hidden the shame of it from invisible spectators, he closed the door softly behind him. Gerald was seated at the table, his head buried in his arms, his sword hanging, lialf-buckled from his side. On the table was the message, a glass, an overturned decanter. Tho air was heavy with the smell of spirits. "Gerald!" the colonel called. There was no answer. He caught his son by , the shoulder and shook him. Gerald fell back in his chair. His face was flushed, his eyes closed. His mouth had fallen a little open, giving him an appearance of almost childish weakness. Calhoun sank down on the chair opposite him. The light burned between them and he sat and stared at this picture of cowardice and' vice, striving to understand. He could not. He oould not understand' that this gambler, this weakling, could be his own flesh and blood. ■He asked himself what he had done to deserve this punishment. He had never shrunk from danger. His own code had been Spartan in its uncompromising severity. And this was his son! His brow crimsoned with a rush of contempt and anger. He could have struck' the flushed, expressionless face before him. He lifted his hand mechanically—but it did not fall. A memory flashed through his brain, paralysing him, freezing his blood.

'You hate him!" she had said. Had there been an iota of truth in those angry words ? In that growing ihunger, in that rising _ bitterness—had there fallen a single poisonous drop ofjealousy? Had he been always fair, always just, toward this boy who had stolen away his happiness? In this last act, was it justice alone that liad 6poken the verdict —or something else too hideous, too awful, to be contemplated? He buTied his gray face in his hands. He probed into every depth and corner of his tortured 1 conscience. There was no answer, no light. He could find no mark of guilt—yet, in his agony of doubt and! fear, he dared not call himself guiltless. Other thoughts crowded in upon him. The realisation of this final disgrace,- of the inevitable punishment awaiting the unconscious boy, of the mother's shame and taoken heart, stood out before him with pitiless distinctness. He sat upright, the perspiration upon his forehead. The minutes passed; he grew calmer. He was a strong man, and strong men find land quickly in th« worst tempest. He took paper and pencil and began to write : "My Wife: "I have thought over what ha 6 happened! between us. It may be true what you said—l do not know. I may have been hard and unjust. If 60, lam going to atone—to you and to our son. He will give you this —he will be unharmed. I am taking the message to X——• I may return safely. In that case this letter will be unnecessary. Ii I do not — well, the doctor tells me that my days of life in India are numbered, so there ■will not be much loss. You must not grieve—l scarcely think you will. Gerald will be safe. He will leave the army, of course, but he will be safe. He is your harniness, and your happinecs is dearest to me. May God bless you both, and make your son worthy of you." That was all- He folded the paper, addressed- it, and laid it on the table. _He stood for a moment looking down into his son's upturned face, tracing out the features, seeing in them the dearer woman's features he might e&e no more. An immense pity and all-embracing tenderness crept over him. He knew now that he had been guiltless, that thero had been no evil in liis heart. He bent down and kissed the lined young forehead, kissed it twice. Then he turned down the light and crept softly from the room. VI. Mts Calhoun pulled aside the curtain 3. The first Bhimmer of morning light fell into the room and on her haggard face. For the first time she looked her age. She was colorless, and her beauty was pinched and wan. , "Gerald —Gerald!" she cried. 'I don t understand!" He stumbled up to her side as though hie eyes were blinded. 'I have told you. Must I repeat it? Don't torture me, mother!" In an agony of remorse and despair he half knelt before her, clinging to hor dress with his shaking hand®. She bent down and pushed the dieordered hair from his forehead, gazing into his eyes as though she would 1 have searched the very bottom of his soul. "You cheated," she oaid almost inaudibly; "then you deceived me. You shirked your punishment—you were afraid —you" tried to drink yourself into courage. Is - that all ? He flinched beneath the bitterness in hex last words. She had never upoken before to him in that tone. _ He made no answer. Her eyes were still fixed on hie faoe. but her thoughts were already busy with the future. She knew the punishment that he had called l down on his own head, and) above her brokenhearted disgust rose her love. "Gerald, where is your father?" she asked suddenly. She had forgotten her own anger of the night before—also her own stinging injustice. As always ia moments of difficulty, she turned to the quiet, gray-faced man. who had never failed her. Almost as though she expected him to answer instantly to her need, she glanced round the room, seeking him. "Where is he?" she repeated. She remembered, that he had not gone to hed l .that night. She went to tlio door of his workroom, and threw it open. "Wilfred!" she called. Jto answer.

is Gerald stumbled to his feet. "Mother," ho stammered, "I have nottold you all. My father—is not here—" :1 "Where is he? \Vher« has ho gone?" 0 "To X, with the message—" "No—no-—it can't be—he never tola me—h<3 never *aid goad-by." ;t "He left this for you." t With' & smothered cry Mra Calhoun seized 'the crumpled 6he»t of paper and •held it to "the light. The curt sentences swam before her eyes. They boro at first , no meaning for her except the one —that, he had cone to his death. c».e read, a 1 second time, and- understood more than i the actual words conveyed. The whole x silent sacrifice, tho quiet, uncomplaining suffering which tho last few weeks had i contained, were reevaled in those half - illegible lines. Ho had never begged her 1 help, nor had ho ever asked her cymj pathy or gratitude, but had gone on his way to the bitter end, to this final act of self-annihilation —for her sake. When 6ho looked up at last, her cyca t, dim with the stinging tors, it was as another woman, stripped of her mantle of | selfishness, thrust suddenly out from her pleasant, narrow avenue upon a high i mountain, with tile expanse of twenty ; years stretched out before her. She understood now—for the love she had let ! cink into every-day lethargy was awake and clamoring at the gate of her heart—- , a thousand things she had ignored, a i thousand tendernesses she had let fall unanswered, the hunger in the stern eyew. 1 "I have been blind!" was the irvc- . sistible cry that- broke from 'her. "Mow it is too late! Oh, Wilfred! Wilfred 1 !" She sank down in the chair at her sido, her head bowed, her hands folded powerlessly before her. Gei'ald put his arms about her. "It is my fault," he said harshly. "Mother, forgive mo!" "God forgive us both!" was tho broken . answer. For' a time, neither spoke. The first, ray of sunlight fell upon -their wretched fares. Then Mrs Calhoun sprang to her , feet. "It is too awful —I cannot sit here and wait. He should be back—lie may bo wounded —dead. I cannot bear it. Gerald, saddle horses! I will go out — If he is alive, I will meet him and tell him—" "Mother, it is. madness—" She turned on him with great, miserable eyes. "So much the better. What has my sanity availed* me?" He made,no answer, but went out. 'To do him justice, tho scales had fallen also from his eyes:' He saw himself as he was, realised that there are worse things, than, death. Mra Calhoun picked up the crumpled .sheet of paper and: pressed; it passionately to her lips. Thus they rode out into tho cool morning'. The birds sang, and t lie scent of flowers was heavy in the air; but' .Mra Calhoun neither knew nor cared. She listened to tho calling-of her conscience, and prayed God it might bo granted her to atone. They passed tho sentries and broke into a gallop. Neither spoke. They were riding headlong, perhaps uselessly, into danger. It was madness, as Gerald had said, but ho himself would not have turned back. Ho set his teeth, and Tcjoiced in this (new 6ense of elation, this sense of regained manhood. A short distance from tho outposts of the station he pulled up. "Listenhe said. On the quiet air they could hear distinctly tho thud of horses' hoofs. "He is coming!" she cried, and urged on. Almost in the same instant, a frantic, riderless horse galloped round a bend in the road and swerved past them. Mrs Calhoun's faee stiffened. "He is dead !" was the thought that flashed through her brain. They rode on till they found him, lying face downward in the dusty road. Sirs Calhoun sprang from' her horse and ran to his side. For, the moment, she did not know if he were alive or dead. She pressed him frantically to her, calling 'liim by name. On either sido were strange sound—soft footfalls and hoarse, muffled voices. Gerald fired, and there was an absolute 6ilence. "The beggars were hard at his heels," ho said coolv: "but they have come too

.110 btUU LVViy } UUI Lliej liavtt ivu far. They won't dare attack us here. Besides, they may think thero arc more behind us. If they do attack —I can account for a few." She looked up at him with flashing eyes. His voice rang with something i>. had lacked before. She turned again to her husband. He seemed to be unhurt, but his face was gray —thero were dar«: - purple lines under the closed eyes. "Brandy!" she commanded. Gerald gave her his flask, and' she forcodl Calhoun's /lips apart. Ilis teeth were clenched on a scrap of paper. She drew it gently away. "It is the answer!" she said, and her voice shook. Then 6he bent down. Wilfred !" 6he whispered. As though in answer to a supreme call, his eyes opened, and he smiled wearily. "Heme, it's you! Don't bo afraid l — not hurt. Only my heart —stupid, isn't it —it gave out—it was bouiKl to. Gerald —it's all over. Try and take tare of her— Try—" He closed his eyes again and began to talk very quietly, almost inaudibly. "15sme, of course I. know one can't live always on the heights—at least, you cannot. I have, perhaps —and it has been lonely. Then, there was Gerald—you hadn't much time for me. It was all quite natural. Do you think, for the last time, though—you could go back twenty years— Yes, I know, dear, lam only a lieutenant, but I 6wear I can fight my wa~ up—l know I can, if only you will standi by me and help mo. Won't it be splendid when. I have my regiment? "Wo shall be tho happiest peoplo on eart-h—just as we are to-day, only better, stronger. We won't let the dust gather on our love —it must always be fresh and green— Three months, you say, doetor? Unless I clear out of here? Well, that can't be —those debts, you know. Don't tell hor—l forbid it. She will get over the shock when the time comes. She lias Gerald— God—this pain— Unly she mustn't know—she must bo happy—not troubled—" The tears were streaming down. Mrs Calhoun's cheeks. She listened as to a revelation. In his delirium, this quiet man was laying bare his 60ul to her —the great, patient, suffering heart whose daily call she had left unanswered, liad not even heard, in her deaf egoism. olio spoke his name again, and he lifted himse- up weakly, peering straight into her face. "Esme —your voice sounded as it used to—and your eyes have the old light. But I am ill. I can't see. All that is gone—over —" "Wilfred, my own-husband—no, no, I have been cruel, neglectful. I never showed you my love—l let the dust gather on it—l failed you. But the love was always there. It is here now—only take it—you cannot leave me —" "The harvest has been gathered in," he answered dreamily. "The fields are bare —there is onl-- the earth and dry stubble left—winter is at hand —" "No —not yet. There is still the aftermath —the beautiful aftermath, my husband !" He looked up at her, his vision clearing from the shadows of delirium. "The aftermath!" ho echoed. He looked at her intently; then his whole face lit up. He made an effort as though to draw her to him, but fell back, his gray head resting on her knee. Mrs Calhoun's heart stood still with a. great fear. bent low, listening. Ho was breathing quietly and 1 peacefully, like an exhausted child who has just fallen asleep. It is not granted to every mortal to atone. It was granted to Mrs Calhoun. She and her husband returned to England, where he slowly recovered his old health. The regained happiness had brought with it renewed life. Ho no longer thought with regretful bitterness of the first growth of their love. There ■was no need. The aftermath had proved more beautiful. As for Gerald, he left the army and went out to Canada where, after, peculiarly few bacloslidings, h<s became a respected and successful citizen. He, too, had learned his lesson.