COMPLETE STORY.

Rodney and Otamatea Times, Waitemata and Kaipara Gazette, 17 February 1915, Page 6

COMPLETE STORY.

/Published by Special Arrangements \with the Proprietors of the Copyrjght./

HER ONLY SON.

By MARY TENNYSON.

Author of "Love's Labor," 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 chetk 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 other shrink away, she continued rapidly: "Forgive me, dear child, Heaven knows I don't want to be harsh with you, but Clive has acted shamefully. Even if he apologises, how 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,' 7 Ec said softly. "In all probability Clive wrote what he did on impulse. You haven't 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 But I'm beginning to despair of

Clive."

f<OE, 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 twentythree, and look at the difference of your positions now; and yet you two started at the bank 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 have 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, any way," Mrs. Beaumont replied, and then^ in broken accents she continued, "How I used to long for Clive 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 a brave, strong 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, Clive is admittedly thoughtless, and "

Mrs. Beaumont shook her head. "It's no good talking," she said impatiently. "You're generoul, 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 ( yoars 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 obviously agitated, and Mrs. Beaumont's countenance grew paler still.

"Sarah," she said faintly, "is there any bad news?"

"Not about 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.' "

Jt was early in Marco, and at fix

o'clock the shadows were gathering in the. long, well-furhished apartment. "How long wiir it take you to get there, Sarah?" Mrs. Beaumont inquired. "■ ■' -' >■ '■ ■■.-:.-■■■■■■ ..'' :,

"The best part of three hours, ma'am. It's not so vary far, but the journey is awkward. Of course William is dreadfully cut up, and we'd like to go, but- » -

"You must go, of course," Mrs. Beaumont replied.;

"Bin ma'am", I don't see as it would be possitle for us to get back to-night," Sarah replied, tearfully.

"Well, that can't be helped for once," the lady said kindly. "Mr. Atistin 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-quite comfortable."

Ten minutes afterwards they watched the servants frurry up the road, and then Mrs. Beaumont returned to the fire, and spread her delicate white hands to its warmth.

"The first thing to be done," she said, with an involuntary shiver, "is to bolt the doors and windows. I wis 1 there were shutters. It's a mercy you are here, Austin, otherwise I couldn't have let William go." The young man raised his brows 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 nerrons, aunt, not a soul knows the diamonds are on the premises except 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 have 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 on 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 the door once more, and, going to the window, put her head out for an instant, preparatory to halfclosing 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 up 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 window, Madge,"- he said. "I couldn't face mother. We must speak softly, though, William's ears are keen."

"William and Sarah are not here," she whispered back. "His father is ill; they have gone to him."

He seemed scarcely to heed 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 help taking it to heart?" ho groaned. "Madge, you know what I asked mother, I suppose?" She bent her head with a sob. "Yes, Clive, I know, and I too begged aunt- ''

"Ah, I knew you would," he interrupted, "but mother refused, though I 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.

"Yes. 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—l feel confident 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.

"Clive, there's nothing in the world I 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 upturned face, 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 j but before she laid her aching head on her pillow, she murmured with a grevious sigh:

"Poor auntie's moving about still. Oh, I trust she'll sleep to-night. Last night, after dive's miserable letter, she^ did riot close her eyes."

But the clock in the hall had chimed the third hour of the new day before

either of the wo»en forgot their, sorrows. ■" ". ' ;'■ ■•■•■.! ■";■.' ■ , .

Ere putting «mt her light, Mrs. Beaumont had re-read her Bon's letter, and presently, having with a sob refolded itj stie thought of the answer she had sqtat him. "I am ashamed of you," she had said j "you are my only son, and I am in this wretched position: I must either look upon you as insane, or as lost to all sense of honor. 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. I am 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 dive gets the money tonight. I will speak to auntie directly after breakfast."

Her face was quite bright when the 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 everything, ready before you came

down."

"I liad bad dreams," Mrs. Beaumont neplied, 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. "Clive 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 I 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 stooping at Austin's door 'thumped loudly on the panels."

"Wake up, sluggard!" she cried merrily; "it's seven o'clock, and a fine fresh morning." She waited for his sleepy response, and then she passed her aunt on the lower flight, and threw open the door of the sitting-room. "Oh, auntie!" she exclaimed, "it is a 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." 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 stumbled out again. Shaking from head to foot, Mrs. Beaumont sank upon the bench in the.hall, but the girl, running to the foot of the stairs, called in tones of wild alarm upon her cousin.

In a moment he was with them. "For Heaven's sake, what's the matter?" he cried. "Aunt, are you ill?"

Mrs. Beaumont rose feebly, and clinging to his arm, pointed to the open door.

"We have been robbed, Austin," she said faintly. -

With an exclamation, he rushed into the room, closely followed by the frightened women. The window at the back was open; the lid of an old oak bureau was hanging by one hinge, having evidently been prised open; and on the floor of it were four leather cases lined with bine velvet, and the cases were empty

"Madge's diamonds!" Mrs. Beaumont 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, nave mercy!"

Terribly alarmed, the cousins ran to her, and following the direction of her distracted gaze, they, too, cried out in horror.

On the floor, among the empty cases, was an open-horn-handled penknife. They all knew it well. It had belonged to his 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, laboring painfully for breath, the moisture trickling down her ashen countenance, "my only son is the thief!"

"Aunt Helen!"

"Yes, that is so," she continued, brokenly, with an ominous gleam in her eyes, which froze the blood in Madge's veins. "Don't you see, he has pushed back the bolt of the window with his father's knife? He showed me one day bow it could be done. 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 the wall, unable to move, but Austin caught his aunt's wildly buffeting hands in -his.

"Aunt," he said hoarsely, "you cannot be sure Clive has had anything to do with this awful business."

"The knife was not there last night," she cried in a transport, "you know both of you it was not there last night j

and he wrote to me to beg for Madge's diamonds Oh, my heart, my poor heart!" Still holding her hands, Austin bent his head, and pressed his lips to them I "Poor Aunt.Helen," he said, unsteadl ily; "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. •; ■' ■■..'..-■■

"We are wasting time," she cried, madly, "the thief may escape." {'Aunt Helen!" "Do not speak, Madge," the tortured woman continued. "I will do my duty by you, at least. I will not. aid and abet my,.son's crime. Austin, I command, you to give information to the police, at once." With a gesture of horror, the young man shrunk back, and the distraught woman proceeded : "If you do not obey me, Austin, I will go myself." For a moment nobody stirred, and with a piteous moan, the poor soul pulled the soft shawl over her premature white hair, and tottered towards the door. • '

But before she had taken a dozen steps Madge sprang upon her, her pallid cheeks suddenly crimsoned' with excitement.

"You shall not go," she cried. "You shall not move from here. Aunt Helen. I am stronger than you."

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 Clive! Aunt Helen, we have been to blame. He was in trouble, and we closed our hearts to him."

"We—we?" the mother repeated. "He came to me last night," Madge went on in an agony; <'h 6 came to me and implored for mercy, and I was a coward. I was afraid of you. I sent him away. You and I are answerable for this sin of his. Ah, Aunt Helen, I love him better than my life. Have mercy on him-=-have mercy on me I"

Then with a groan the mother covered her face and burst into a paroxsysm 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 Clive for us. There may be a way of helping-him through Mr. Sommerton. It is only a Kttle past seven now. You have your bicycle here. Austin, do you not understand me?"

He passed his hand across his eyes. "I am almost dazed," he muttered "I, too, love Clive."

"Then go to him now—at once," she urged. "Brings 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 out of the gate, and returned to the room.

"Good-bye, Aunt Helen," he said with a break in his voice.

She looked up at him

"Oh, Austin," she responded sadly,' "what should we do without you?" The tears rushed to her dark eyes, and, raising her hands, she pulled his face down and kissed" his cheek. "Goodbye," she faltered, "don't tell Clive all I said in my misery.',

He passed Madge without a word, and, mounting his bicycle, sped towards town.

At noon the servants returned, William's 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, miser ably. "Auntie, I can bear this nc 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 1 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 I might have forgiven even a thief."

He recoiled as if he had 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 casesi

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 reverbe^ rated through the house, and instinctively Madge took the letter from the box. It was in Austin's handwriting, and addressed to herself, and bewildered 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 pawnbroker's ticket, taken out in Austin Beaumont's name, and acknowledged the receipt of diamond? to the value of .£2OO.

"You will understand all when you

receive this," the unkapgj men 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, dive had feat me, his penknife—l 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 stolen. Until then, forgive your most unhappy and guilty cousin, Austin."

An honr afterwards CKve satr" 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 had. been betting, bnt the chief's son, who is a pal of mine, told me that, for' my father's, and Austin's father's sake, they 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 paused. Looking round, his humid eyes fell on Madge's face, .and then his own lighted up with joy. "And now, j'ou two dear souls," he cried, "you shall hear my good news."

"Good news! Oh, Clive!'?

"The best news in the world! Mother —Madge—look! A cheque for £250, all my very own!"

"Clive!"

"I have come out top in the list in i 'The First Novel Competition.' When J I got this," he continued, with a tremble in his voice, "my first thoughts were of Austin. Well, your diamonds will be redeemed to-morrow, Madge, and the I other fifty will give him a start in Canada. Oh, I know where he has go*ne. T Austin succumbed to a fearful temptation, but he's good at heart, and remember, mother, that I owe him—my 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."

(The End.)