SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3455, 1 June 1920, Page 66

SHORT STORIES.

[Aj-l Riqiits Reserved'.]

HER ONLY SON.

By Mary Tennyson, Author of "Love's Labour," etc

"The postman!" Mrs Beaumont cried. "Oh, don't trouble to fetch the letter, Austin, it's not likely to be- anything pleasant." The young man hesitated, but a girl, ■who was sitting apart, rose, and going to the elder lady, kissed her cheek tenderly. "It may be another letter from Clive," she said unsteadily; "he may be sorry now he wrote •as he did: besides, auntie, you know I -would far rather he had " "Silence, Madge,"- Mrs Beaumont exclaimed, and then, seeing the ether shrink away, she continued rapidly: "Forgive me, dear child; Heaven knows I don't want to be harsh to you, but dive has acted shamefully. Even if he apologises, now can I ever forget?"

Madge sighed, and with a pleading glance at her silent cousin, Austin, turned away. At once he responded to the unspoken appeal. "Aunt Helen," he said softly. "In all probability Glive wrote what he did on impulse. You hadnM> told me what his offence is; but whatever it is, no doubt your answer to his letter will make him thoroughly ashamed of himself."

"Ashamed of himself!" Mrs Beaumont repeated bitterly; "indeed, I hope so. But I'm beginning to despair of Give." "Oh, Aunt Helen, surely not!" Austin protested warmly. "He is only a young fellow, ..after all." "He is as old as you are, Austin," was the mournful reply. "He is twenty -three, and look at the difference of your positions now; and yet you two started at the hank on a level." Madge's cheeks flushed, and the tears rose in her eyes, but still she spoke gently. "Dear Aunt Helen, have patience, she said wistfully. "We shall all be proud of Clive some day. That play of his is very clever." "Ah, this theatre-going craze of his is the root of all the evil, Mrs Beaumont retorted angrily, "but for that Clive would have remained contentedly at home." "Still, auntie, most young men nowadays Avant a latchkey."

"But not many would desert their mother because they were refused such an indulgence." "Desert you! Why, Aunt Helen, Clive has been away just a week, though it certainly seems much longer, and he says he is only going to sleep in town for a short time."

"Ah, well, Madge, don't let us quarrel, anyway," Mrs Beaumont replied,-; and then, in broken accents, she continued: "How I Tised to long for Clive to grow to be a man. In the early days of my widowhood, when I was scarcely more than a girl, I used to sit with my boy in my arms, and try to comfort myself with the thought that every *day was bringing me nearer to the time when I should have n lv"-«, Ftronrr man to lean upon; a man like his dear father—and now "

"But, dear aunt," Austin interrupted. I'm arguing in the dark in this case; but do remember, Olive is admittedly thou ghtl e ss, an d '' Mrs Beaumont shook her head. "It's no good talking," "she said impatiently. "You're generous, Austin, and, of course, you'd make out black was white where Clive is concerned, because you saved his life that day at Richmond, eight years ago." Austin Beaumont sighed, but he made no other response, and a grim silence had again settled, on the three when a woman entered the room. She was ob-~ viously agitated, and Mrs Beaumont's countenance grew paler still. "Sarah," she said faintly, "is there any bad news?" "Not abo'iit Master Clive,. ma-am," Sarah replied quickly. She knew the mother's fears for her son were always on the alert; "but it is bad news, too. William has just got this* letter : —'Dear Will,' she read aloud, 'Your father is took very bad suddenly. Come as soon as you can, and bring Sally with you. Mind, poor father wants to see Sally too. No more, from your sorrowing mother, Anne Simmons.' " It was early in March, and at six o'clock the shadows were gathering in the long, well-furnished apartment. "How long will it take you to get there, S'a.rah?" Mrs Beaumont inquried. "The best part of three hours, ma'am. It's not so very far, but the journey's awkward. Of course, William is dreadfully cut up, and we'd like to go, but- " "You must go, of course," Mrs Beaumont cried. "But, ma'am, I do'b see as it would be possible for us to get back tO-night," Sarah replied tearfully. "Well, that can't be helped for once," the lady said kindly. "Mr Austin is here, fortunately." "Don't worry yourself, Sally," Madge whispered, pushing her gently towards the door. "Austin and I will see to everything ; don't be afraid, we will make Aunt Helen finite comfortable." Ten minutes afterwards they watched the servants hurry np the road, and then Mrs Beaumont returned to the fire, and spread her delicate white hands to its warmth.

"The first thing to be clone," she said, with an involuntary shiver, "is to bolt the doors and windows. I wish there were shutters. It's a mercv you are here, Austin, otherwise I couldn't have let William go." The young man raised his I>rows inquiringly. "I'm thinking of

those diamonds of Madge's," she explained. "Why, yes, of course," was the quick rejoinder. "I had forgotten for the moment they are still here. But really I don't think" you need feel nerous, aunt; not a soul knows the are on the premises excepting we three." "And'Clive," the widow added. "But you shall take them with you to the bank to-morrow, Austin. I'm quite determined I will not h&ve them here another day." Wearily the evening passed. Madge made valiant efforts to relieve the prevailing depression, but her own heart ached grievously, and all were glad when at last they could make a move towards bed. , But when Madge had closed her door there came a "soft knock, and opening it she discovered Austin. "Just a word," he whispered. "I didn't speak before Aunt Helen, because she seemed nervous; but, Madge, if I should oversleep myself in the morning, please wake me. I'm sorry to say I'm a heavy sleeper; but if anything should make you uncomfortable in the night, give a big thump en my door and I'll be with you in an instant. Good-night, cousin." With a nod and rather a sad smile, the girl shut her door once more, and going to the window, put her head out for an instant, preparatory to half closing the casement. The air was keen and sharp. "It's actually frosty!" she murmured, and then, with a stifled exclamation, she leant further out, her heart beating with almost suffocating violence. A familiar figure had entered the garden, and was now stealing up the path, while he looked inp at her with his hand raised as though to insure her silence.

The sitting-room under her bedroom was very low-pitched, and his whisper came to her distinctly. "I waited to see the lights in your room, Madge," he said. "I couldn't face mother. We must speak softly, though, William's ears are sharp." "William and Sarah are not here," she whispered back. "Has father is ill; they have gone to him." He seemed scarcely to head her words as he went on bitterly : "Madge, mother's letter was cruel."

"I didn't see it," she faltered, "but, dear Clive, you must not take it too much to heart. Aunt Helen is, like you, very impulsive.'' "How can I b.3lp taking it to heart?" he groaned. "Madge, you know what 1 asked mother, I suppose?" She bent her head with a sob.

"Ye. 3, Olive, I know, and I, too, begged aunt "

"Ah, I knew you would," he interrupted, "but mother refused, though 1 told her the circumstances were desperate. We know she has only her annuity, and has no power herself to supply the money I need, so now I am forced to come to you." "To me?" she cried blankly. "Ye&. Oh, Madge, for Heaven's sake don't harden your heart, too. Lend me the diamonds. I must have two hundred pounds at once. I will pawn them for that; but'they are worth a thousand at least. I shall be able to redeem them presently —I feel convinced I shall. Madge, after all, the diamonds are your own property, and you will be of age in another three months." Wringing her hands, she looked down into his anxious eyes. "Olive, there's nothing in the world 1 would deny you," she cried under her breath, "but I am helpless. The diamonds are in the bureau, and Aunt Helen has the key." The light of the moon shone full in his upturneddface, and she saw his eyes grow misty. " . "I'm beaten, then," he said unsteadily, "I might have known I was coming on. a fool's errand; but I've been so awfully harassed. If mother has the key the case is hopeless, and things must take their course." Without another word he turned away. Weeping bitterly, Madge watched until he was out of sight, and then she undressed; but before she laid her aching head on her pillow, she murmured with a grievous sigh: "Poor Auntie's moving about still. Oh, I trust she'll sleep to-night. Last night, after Olive's miserable letter, she did not close her ej^es." But the clock in the hall had chimed the third hour of the new day before either of the women forgot their' sorrows. Ere putting out her light, Mrs Beaumont had re-read her son's' letter, and presently, having with a sob refolded it, she thought of the answer she had sent him. "I am ashamed of you," she had said; "you are my* only son, arid I am in this wretched position : - I -must either look upon you as insane, or as lost to all sense of honour. Is it possible you do not realise how monstrous is the thing you ask? That I should assist you in robbing your cousin, the orphan girl who was left in my charge. I can say no more lam inexpressibly unhappy.' That my son should drag his father's name in the dust. Your most sorrowful mother." Madge was naturally of a sanguine temperament, and when she awakened, through her open window came a flood of spring sunshine and the cheery twitter of birds. "I will try to move Aunt Helen," she said to herself, as she deftly arranged her bright brown hair: "but if she will not listen to me I will go up to town and consult Mr Sommerton, who brought me the diamonds. He was a great friend of my dear godmother's; perhaps he would advance the money. I shall be of age in June. I wish I had thought of him last night, but I felt quite scared. Surely it can't be too late if Clive gets the money to-night. I will speak to auntie directly after breakfast." Her fai?e was quite bright when she Went out of her room, and found her aunt standing on the landing. "Oh, auntie," she cried, smiling at

her, "Austin and I wanted to have every thing ready before you ■came down." "I had bad dreams," Mrs Beaumont replied wearily. "I was glad to get up. Ah, Madge, darling, you are a sunbeam in the house. No wonder many women want daughters instead of sons." The girl put her arm round the widow's neck. "You wouldn't change, you> know that, auntie," she said coaxingly. "Olive makes mistakes sometimes, but •" The mother gazed yearningly into the | pretty, loving face, and then the gravity of her expression relaxed. "Mistakes!" she repeated. "Well, perhaps 1 have been too angry with the boy. I really believe half his time Olive's brains are woolgathering." 'With a laugh the girl ran down the stairs, and stopping at Austin's door I thumped loudly on the panels. i "Wake up, sluggard!" she cried merrily, | it's seven o'clock, and a line fresh morni ing-" She waited for his sleepy response, and then she passed her aunt on the lower flight, agid threw open the door of the i sitting-room. "Oh, auntie!" she exclaimed, "it is a I fresh morning indeed. Put on this wrap, • dearest. I wish you hadn't come down | until I had lighted the fire. It seems . as if the wind were actually blowing in." I She muffled Mrs Beaumont up, and the two entered the room. Then a shrill cry . of terror echoed through the silent house, , and, with blanched faces, the women i stumbled out again. Shaking from head to foot, Mrs Boau- ; mont sank upon the bench in the hall, but the girl, running to the foot of the i stairs, called in tones of wild alarm upon her cousin. In a moment he was with them. "For Heaven's sake, what's the mat- ! ter?" he cried. "Aunt, are you ill?" Mrs. Beaumont rose feebly, and, cling- | ing to his arm, pointed to the open door. J "We have been robbed, Austin," she i said faintly. ! With an exclamation he rushed into the , room, closely followed by the frightened I women. The window at the back was \ open; the lid of an old oak bureau was | hanging by one hinge, having evidently j been prised open; and on the floor in ■ front of it were four leather cases lined ; with blue velvet, and the cases were ! empty. i "Madge's diamonds!" Mrs Beaumont I faltered, as she slowly advanced to the bureau. But before she reached it she swayed suddenly on her feet, and, with a gasp, started back. "Oh, Heaven!" she panted. "Oh, Heaven, have mercy." Terribly alarmed, the cousins ran to her, and following the direction of her - distracted gaze, they, too, cried out in , horror. Oil the floor, among the empty cases, was an open horn-handled penknife. They } all knew it well. It had belonged to his j father, and from a young boy it had been one of Olive's most cherished - possessions. ! For a moment there was a ghastly silence, and then the widow spoke again: "My son is the thief," she stuttered*, labouring painfully for Breath,- the mois- \ ture trickling down her ashen counte- ■ nance, "my only son is the thief." j "Aunt Helen!" "Yes, that • is so," she continued brokenly with an ominous igleam in her . eyes which froze the blood in Madge's | veins. "Don't yoxi see,- he has pushed I back the bolt of the window with his ■ father's knife? He showed me one day how it could be clone. Thank God his poor father did not live to see this day. : Oh, my son! My only child!" She beat her hands upon her breast | in a frenzy, while Madge, with the tears streaming down her face, leant against l the wall unable to move; but Austin \ caught his aunt'j .wildly-buffeting hands in | his. ! "Aunt," he said hoarsely, "you cannot j be sure Olive has had anything to do j with this awful business." "The knife was not there last night," she cried in a transport; "you know, both I of you, it was not there last night; and he wrote to me to beg for Madge's diamonds. Oh, my heart, my poor heart!" Still holding her hands, Austin bent I his head, and pressed his lips to them. j. "Poor Aunt Helen," he said unsteadily; '•'but you must not make up your mind to the worst."" With a muffled cry she thrust him violently from her, and sprang erect, her handsome face distorted with misery. "Wo are wasting time," she cried i madly. "The thief may escape." "Aunt Helen !'' "Do not speak, Madge," the tortured j woman continued. "I will do my duty by j you at least. I will not aid and abet j my iron's crime. Austin, I command you ; to give information to the police at once." With a gesture of horror the young ! man shrank back, and the distraught I woman proceeded : "If you do not obey me, Austin, I will I go myself." j For a moment nobody stirred, and with a piteous moan the poor soul pulled the soft shawl over her prematurely white I hair, and tottered towards the dcor. i But before she had taken a dozen steps ' Madge sprang upon her, her pallid cheeks j suddenly crimsoned with excitement. "You shall not go," she cried. "You j shall not move from. here. Aunt Helen, I I am stronger than ycu." She_ pushed. the half-fainting woman ! back into the chair, and, falling on her ! knees, encircled her with her arms. "Dearest," she sobbed, "don't break my heart. What are the diamonds to me? Nothing. But Olive! Aunt Helen, ' we have been to blame. He was in j trouble, and we closed our hearts to him." i "We—we?" the mother repeated. j "He came to me last night," Madge went on in an agony; "he came to me, j and implored for mercy, and I was a coward. I was afraid of you. I sent him i away. You and I are answerable for this gin of his. Ah, Aunt Helen, I love him

better than my life. Have mercy on him —have mercy on me!" Then, with a groan, the mother covered her face and burst into a paroxysm of almost delirious weeping. But after a while she sank back exhausted, and Madge turned to Austin, who had stood gazing at them with a drawn countenance.

"What shall we do, Austin?" she said; "think for us. Save Olive for us. There may be a way of helping him through Mr S'ommerton. It is only a little past seven now. You have your bicycle here. Austin, do you not me?" He passed his hand across his eyes.. "I am almost dazed," he muttered. "I, too, love Olive." ' "Then go to him now —at once," she urged. "Bring the diamonds back with you if possible. I will get the money he needs to-day somehow." He made no response, but went heavily up to his room. Five minutes later he wheeled his bicycle to the gate, and returned to the room. "Good-bye, Aunt Helen," he said with a break in his voice. She looked up at him. "Ah, Austin," she responded sadly, "what should we do without you?" The tears rushed to his dark eyes, and, raising her hands, she pulled his face down and kissed his cheek. "Good-bye," she faltered; "don't tell • Olive all I said in mv misery." "He passed Madge without a word, and, mounting his bicycle, sped towards town. At noon the "servants returned, William's old father having safely passed the crisis of his illness; but from the upper windows the anxious women watched in vain for a sign of Austin. For hours Madge argued hopefully, but when it grew quite dark her spirits also sank to zero. At eight she came into the room in her hat and cloak.

"I will go to Clive," she said miserably. "Auntie, I can bear -this no longer." She went into the hall and opened the door, and then, with an irrepressible exclamation, she fell back. A man had rushed past her, and had noisily burst into the room where Mrs Beaumont sat quivering with nervousness. "Mother! Mother!" he cried; "you must forgive me now !" Clive had flung down his cap, and the firelight shone on his excited, comely face, and the despairing woman's heart hardened again as she recognised no sign of contrition in the boyish blue eyes. "If you had come to me in sorrow and repentance," she said harshly, "in time 1 might have forgiven even a thief." He recoiled as if he ha'd been struck.

"Don't deny it," she continued brokenly; "the penknife, with which you forced the window, lay on the floor among the empty jewel cases." For a moment the young man stared blankly at .her, and then he turned away, and, -staggering to the table, flung his arms across it, and buried his face. "Too late," he groaned. "Too late, too late!" Again the postman's knock reverberated through the house, and instinctively Madge took the letter from the box. It was in Austin's handwriting, addressed to herself, and bewjldered with grief she returned to the light and opened it. She took out the sheet of notepaper, and as she did so a card fell from it. Involuntarily she stooped and picked it up, and then she cried out aloud in her astonishment. It was a l -pawnbroker's ticket, taken out in Austin Beaumont's name, and acknowledged the receipt of diamonds to the value of £2OO. "You will understand all Avhen you receive this." the unhappy man wrote. "Madge, I dared not confess my crime, but for pity's sake believe I did not mean to cast suspicion on Clive. I hoped you would imagine it an ordinary case of burglary. Clive had lent me his penknife' —I dropped it by accident. When you receive this I shall be out of the country. Try to forgive me if you can. Some day, if God permits, I will restore, what I have etolen. Until then, forget your most unhappy and guilty cousin, Austin." An hour afterwards Clive sat by his mother's side, holding her hand in his. "That was why I wanted the money," he said. "I knew the poor fellow had got into a. terrible mess at the bank. He bad been betting, but the chief's son, who is a pal of mine, told me that, for my father's and Austin's father's sake, they're were inclined not to prosecute if he returned the money. I owe Austin a heavy debt, you know, mother " The widow laid- her cheek .tenderly against his hand. "My dear, my dear, true son! Oh, Clive, how can you forgive me for doubting you, how can I forgive myself?" "Things looked very black against me," he responded gravely. "Besides, dear mother, I haven't been a very satisfactory son, I'm afraid." .He nausecl. Looking round, his humid eyes fell on Madge's face, and then his own lighted up with joy. "And now, you two dear souls," he. cried, "you shall hear my good, news." "Good news! Oh, Clive!" "The best news in the world! MotherMadge—look ! A cheque for £250, all my very own !" "Clive!"

"I have come out top in the list in 'The First Novel Competition.' When I got this," he continued, with a tremble in his voice, "my first thought was of Austin. . Well, your diamonds shall be redeemed to-morrow, Madge, and other fifty will give him a start in Canada. Oh, I know where he has gone. Austin succumbed to a fearful temptation, hut he's good at heart, and mother, that I owe him—ray life." . Once more Mrs Beaumont kissed his hand.

"You are very generous," she murmured. "My dear, I will try to learn the lesson you teach." He brushed his hand across his glistening eyes. *

"And there's more good news," he cried. "My play is to come out in ten days. We have been having night rehearsals lately, that's why I wanted the latch-key. I didn't wish to raise false hopes, so I kept the secret, but now everyone says its shaping for a big success, and if it is—oh, Madge!" For a minute the widow watched the two glowing faces, and then rising, she" took a hand of each and clasped them together. "You are worthy of each other," she said. "God bless you both, my dears."