IF TO-DAY BE SWEET

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17881, 24 June 1926, Page 16

IF TO-DAY BE SWEET

’ STAR’S " NEW SERIAL

By

DOROTHY ROGERS.

CHAPTER V.— (Continued ) Without taking any notice of his direction or realising in the least where he was, he had reached Cavendish Square and was striding, round and round the path outside the railings which enclosed the central grass and trees. There, utterly deaf and blind alike to the occasional traffic, .or to the rising curiosity of a police officer on duty at the corner of the square, he continued his endless walk. Ilis long, lean figure was more bent than usual, and his plain, serious face was full of such intense trouble that the officer, after strolling across in his direction with a doubtfully suspicious stare, turned back once more with a feeling of pity for the man who was so obviously absorbed in tormented thought. It was some time before Derek Howling paused, raised his head and gazed blankly about him, unable for a moment or two to realise exactly where he was. Then with a deep sigh he squared his shoulders resolutely, crossed the road and proceeded, quickly along Holies Street. lie had come to one decision, as it were, from the utter chaos into which all the plans and decisions of his whole life had been thrown, and that was to keep this news as long as possible from his people and from Gentian. Exactly why he wished to do this he could not have said. It may have been partly because he could not bear as yet. that, anyone, least of all those .he loved, should know the awful thing that had come upon them. lie felt as if their sorrow and pity would be more than he could endure. In addition, his protective gentleness of disposition shrank as desperately from causing them distress as it might had lie to confess a crime rather than a terrible misfortune. What would have to happen in the months to come, as his sight got worse and worse, he refused to think. For the present he must concentrate on keeping the truth from his parents and his fiancee. As for his own thoughts, those he must endeavour to stifle in work. As it had been definitely said there was no hope of saving his sight, there was no reason why he should spare it. lie would make a superhuman effort to get the book finished before he passed for ever into darkness. The famous oculist’s suggestion that he should get a second opinion he dismissed at once. There was no other eye specialist so clever as the man he had consulted. It would only mean bearing his sentence of doom twice instead of once, and the verv tone in which the suggestion had been made had delicately hinted at the uselessness of such a procedure. When Derek Ilewling entered the lounge of the hotel where they were staying and where he had arranged to meet his mother and Gentian, a quiet look of determination had the place of the deep anguish of his expression. As soon as, in peering about, he had discovered his fiancee, who was endeavouring to attract his attention, he approached her with a cheerftil smile. Naturally, both she and Mrs Hewling began to question him immediately, but he had prepared himself for that. Drawing up a chair beside them and stretching his long legs, he lit a cigarette and lied briefly and convincingly'. Whether for such lies he would receive ultimate punishment is a matter for argument; for the time being he was well rewarded by the dissipation of anxiety and the joyful relief of his two dear women.

Gentian, who had really' been anxious about him, was deceived by the quiet indifference with which he managed to speak. . It never occurred to her to doubt a word of what he said, and her rising good spirits further blinded her to any slight signs by which Hewling might possibly’ have betrayed himself. Mrs Hewling, who had felt comfortably sure that there was nothing the matter but excessive strain, contented herself by remarking in her little pouting way: “ Well now, Derek, you really must not work so hard at that old book of yours. T love to think you are so clever, dear, but it worries poor little me and Gentian most dreadfully when your eyes go wrong. It frightens me to death, for I can't bear to think of anyone losing their sight.” She looked at him with pretty pathos, far less concerned with the possibility of such a tragic happening than with her own fleeting imagination of it.i Hewling took his cigarette from between his lips and stared at. the glowing end of it. for a moment very' intently’; then he looked up with a brief smile. “ It’s all right, little mater," he sard, “ I’ll do my best not to worry you.” CHAPTER VI. One evening, a few days later, Paul Farrant returned to Ashton Manor. Unannounced, even bv a previous wire, he lounged into the drawing-room where his mother sat in a circle of lamplight doing fine needlework. She was accustomed from long experience to these erratic reappearances, and merely looked up at him keenly' and affectionately as he bent down to kiss her. “Well, mother?” he said. “Well, dear?” said she. Then he flung himself into a deep chair, laid his head wearily back and sighed heavily. After a moment he raised his head once more to gaze at her, and his face lit up into a smile of infinite whimsical tenderness. “ Still trying to ruin y’our pretty' eyes over that embro.dery, mother?” he asked lightly’. Mrs Farrant laid her work down in her lap and gave her son a sweet quick glance. Now’ you have come to amuse me, I will give them a rest,” she replied. “Poor little mater!” be said in a tone of compunction. “I do leave you alone a lot!” He pulled himself out of the big chair and wandered restlessly round the room for a moment or two, pausing at the hearth to push a blazing log further into the fire with his foot, then taking out his cigarette case, lie extracted a cigarette, tapped it on tlie case, frowning thoughtfully the while, | lit it, and once more flung liimself down into the chair. “ And what have you been doing i with y'ourself ? ,r he inquired. * His mother' mswered the question

that she never permitted herself to ask him. Various small happenings, scarcely to be called events, and the usual routine had occupied her time. He listened to her simple account with his whole attention, as if it concerned matters of the utmost importance. This was an attractive trait of Paul’s, and one which he rarely failed to exhibit. Nothing but the extremity of boredom ever caused him to withdraw, his full attention from whomsoever addressed him. For the time being that person, whether man, woman or child, constituted his entire interest. He had been known -to exercise the same grave concentration when Miss Sophia Tebbs had tearfully related to him the symptoms of the last illness of her ancient Pekinese Ti-fu, and for quite half an hour afterwards he would have been able to tell you the exact number of nights she had been up with her pet, and how many times she had poulticed it. In reply' to a mocking sally from Linda Studdart, who had overheard the conversation, he had simply said, looking at her with enigmatic aloofness, “ Poor little woman, she has so few interests in life. It’s her tragedy that she should have to .waste her mother-instincts on a Pekinese. If a mother-instinct ever is w’asted—l wonder?” And Linda had gazen in blank incomprehension at the thoughtfulness of his face. In this instance, however, it was not so much a motive of pity that caused his interest. Paul was sincerely devoted to his mother, and the slightest thing which concerned her appeared of importance to him. Moreover, his conscience was at times vaguely uneasy about her. While apparently incapable of doing other than was suggested by the desire of the moment, he was dimly aware that his instability troubled her. In all small ways that he could, therefore’ he endeavoured to study and please her. Most certainly did he make her sure of his deep affection, and this had been as balm to her on numberless occasions when his inconsequent wildness had sorely vexed her spirit. * These twinges of conscionce and the resultant expressions of demonstrative tenderness, so child-like in their impulsive sincerity, usually followed one of Paul’s capricious absences. During the next few days his conduct was impeccable. With keen attention he went into various small matters connected with the estate, superintended the rewalling of one portion of it. and in all things seemed to suggest that he was entirely in harmony with his surroundings. Nevertheless, his mother, ever keenly sensitive to his moods, was aware that underlying this burst of energy’ there remained an unaccountable restlessness. He had returned from London on a Tuesday; on the following Sunday morning, to Mrs Farrant’s surprise and gratification, he volunteered to accompany’ her to church. Usually it required a great amount of persuasion to induce him to go, and she felt that this unexpected graciousness arose from his penitent desire to plase her. In a great measure this was quite correct; but there was another reason of which he was himself dimly conscious. It expressed itself in the way in which, for once, he kept turning to watch the Armishaws’ pew to look for their arrival. He was. disappointed, however. The pew remained empty. Thenceforward he stared in front of him in somewhat moody abstraction during the whole of the ser-

Nevertheless, Gentian Armishaw was in church. Her mother having remained at home, she had gone to sit with her fiancee s people, and was returning to dine with them afterwards. As soon as he got out of church Paul saw her standing with Derek Hewling, talking to two of the Chauncey girls. She was wearing a grey squirrel coat, with a soft cap of the same fur, which, with her dark hair and brows, made her seem a lovely study in black and grey, showing up more than ever the intense blue of her ej'es. Paul’s expression lightened. lie raised his hat and paused as though on the point of joining them. The Chauncey girls, however, had their backs turned towards him; Derek Hewling did not see him, and Gentian, who did, gave him. such a cold and distant bow that he felt constrained to pass by and rejoin his mother, who had walked on with the vicar's wife. He could, not understand why Gentian should have treated him thus, and pondered it in morose silence all the way back to the Manor, and again in the afternoon as he; sat smoking solitarily by the library lire. A keen wind shook the trees outside and roared dullv in the chimney.- The melancholy sound of it increased the depression which Paul was unable to shake off. He had fled to London to escape it, only to find it settle more heavily upon him now that he had returned. Even in town, too, he had been low-spirited. His mind went back to the fair lady of the box; Ldllie had reproached him with it, not onl}' that, evening, but on other occasions. Once she had gone to the length of threaten{ing to bestow her favours on someone else, and he had been mildly surprised to realise how little he would care if she did. They had certainly remained on excellent terms; in fact, after the hint of a quarrel which was suggested by her threat he had been warmer in his attentions, and had succeeded in satisfying her exacting nature. Neverj thejess, at the root of it all there was j little better than indifference. The de- | sire had come to him .to return to j Ashton. As usual, he made no at- ■ tempt to analyse it, or even to wonder precisely how evanescent it might be. On the contrary, he got his things together with careless speed, left a note for Lallie, who was out, and caught the next train—a slow one. but it did not matter—to Gloucestershire. fTo be Continued.)