"THE FOREFRONT OF BATTLE,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 26 September 1933, Page 7

"THE FOREFRONT OF BATTLE,”

CHAPTER XXll.—Continued. “That’s just it, Phil. Is Daddy wrong? He is not so eccentric as you, and many people seem to think. He is certainly not an unreasonable man. He has been a j>erfect dear to me all my life. ’ ’ 4 Philip’s face had suddenly gone white. He took both the girl’s arms and gripped them tightly. “You don’t mean that you believe your father, Irma? You don’t.” She tried to speak, but could not. The tears rolled down her cheeks. “I can’t help it, Phil,” she sobbed. “I lay awake all last night. You see I know Daddy so well. He may have queer little notions but they are always quite rational. Above all he is always a just man —very fair to everyone. I’m sure that lie believes exactly what lie says. ’ ’ “He believes it, but it’s not true. I asked the governor —” “I know, Phil. Of course it is only natural and right that you should believe your father, but—” ' “Good Lord! You mean that you can believe a story like that about the pater? Why everyone knows that he’s the best and kindest fellow that ever breathed. Is it likely he’d let Montero go away to die, without giving him your father’s warning?”

Irma wiped her -eyes. “He loved Paula, Phil,” she said, quietly. “Men —the best men —have done queer things when they were in love with a woman, and could not get her. If your father warned Montero, why did he go away to the Amazon? Does it seem likely that he would go?” “I tell you, I asked the governor the other day, point-blank, and he did not flicker an eye-lash. He told me all this was a cock-and-bull story. I’m amazed that you should believe an old ) )

I' ' “He’s my father, Phil.” The boy swallowed and turned away. There was silence for a moment, j and then he turned on her angrily. “Then you believe this, Irma? You ■ really believe the pater is a murderer, j in intent if not in actual deed?” | “I’m sorry, Phil, but I’m inclined • to believe my dad.” I Philip’s face went red, then grim and I sullen. j “We —we’d better get back to Windsor,” he muttered. “It’s not much use going on. I don’t feel like j walking. ’ ’ He turned back towards the broad | drive where the grey old castle- showed j its towers above a mantle of green; the girl walking a little behind. She ! was crying softly to herself. | CHAPTER XIII. It was nine o ’clock in the evening, j The large house in Duchess-st. was I very quiet. David Teesdale had dined alone, waited on by servants whose soft voices might have indicated sympathy, but whose impassive faces revealed nothing of their thoughts. David wondered whether he was being discussed in the servants’ quarters. Paula had gone. She had taken with her two trunks and her maid, Marie. Paula had left no address. David, in fact, had not seen her since the night when he vainly pleaded with her ! to stay. - Now he sat alone in the big draw-ing-room; a cup of cold coffee beside him; between his teeth was a cigar which had long since gone out. Wearily the man’s eyes went around the pleasant room. He and Paula had planned this room together. There was her Steinway grand with a Chopin nocturne still on the music-rest.

David rose to his feet and threw away his cigar. He began to walk from one room to another. He found himself in Paula’s bedroom.

The room had been tidied up, probably by Marie pefore she left. But the elegant, feminine apartment was nevertheless redolent of Paula’s charm. Her perfume —a rare product of Guerlain’s —hovered in the atmosphere. On a table was a photograph of Paula in evening dress. He remembered the frock. She had worn it at Bellagio when they had gone to a special Scarlatti concert. She had worn it again in Venice.

Suddenly the man roused simself. It would not do to go on like this. He was becoming maudlin! Whatever haT>pened to one life had to go on. He had a business and a son. He must plunge into work, arrange his life so that it gave him fresh interests. He glanced at his >yateh and noted that it was half past nine, it would be best to go to one his clubs. He would meet fellows he knew, and find some distraction.

Turning over in his mind which of two clubs he would go to, David went down the stairs. He had almost gained the hall when a servant came from the drawing-room. “Mr Philip is here, sir,” said the man. “I thought you were in the drawing-room, so I—” “All right, Webster,” said David. 1 ‘ Thanks. ’ ’

He went quickly to the drawingroom. Philip dressed in a light grey overcoat, was pacing the room. He turned at his father’s approach, and at sight of the boy’s pale, worried face, the gladness went out of David’s heart. “Hullo, Phil. How are you? Take off your coat, and sit down. I was just going to have a spot of whisky. You join me?” “I think I will fpr once, Pater. I'm a bit rattled!”

The boy pulled off his light coat and dropped it on to. a chair. Sitting down he took out a yellow paper packet and lit a cigarette. David busied himself with a decanter, glasses and syphon. ‘ ‘ Say ‘ when, ’ my boy. ’ ’ “Thanks, Pater.” They settled themselves in chairs. David lit a cigar. He looked at his son through a thin, blue cloud of smoke. “Well, what’s the trouble, Phil?” “It’s Irma, and her father. You know that cock-and-bull story the old chap got hold of.” “So Dr.. Grant’s story is causing trouble between you and Irma?” “Yes.” The boy began to speak rapidly: “Irma and I were out together today. I discovered —it seems absurd and preposterous—but I discovered that she believes her father! Can you beat it, Pater? She actually believes the wild yarn that poor old Grant has told her. Of course' the old boy’s potty. Everybody knows that. Why he often stands on a tub in Hyde Park and spouts on

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

BY MARTEN CUMBERLAND. (Author of “Behind the Scenes,” “Loaded Dice,” “The Perilous Way,” etc.)

“Wait a moment.” David’s voice was tired, flat and metallic.

“Phil,” he said, slowly. “I’ve something to tell you. Something to confess. I’ve lied to you before, and I did so partly to protect myself-—from cowardice—and partly because I thought it best for all of us. “You lied to me?”

“Yes, I lied—about Montero. But the truth is out now. Grant came here and saw Paula. She —Phil, she’s left me! ’’

“Paula lias left you? Grant saw her —you mean—?” Philip stared white-faced at David. Suddenly the boy understood. The cigarette dropped from his fingers and lay for a moment smouldering in the carpet before he put his foot on it. “My God” said the boy. “Then Grant’s story was true. You sent Montero out there to —” He broke off. David covered his eyes with one hand. Philip was walking up and down the room. At this moment his father’s pain never occurred to him. The boy saw only his bwn loss.

“So it’s true! You lied to me! And now —wliat can I say to Irma? It’s all over! ’ ’ He fell into a chair. David rose quickly to his feet and bent over his son.

“Phil!” he said. “Don’t take this too badly. It’s my funeral. There’s no reason why you should —” He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but Philip twisted away and sprang to his feet. ‘‘ Don’t touch me!” Tears of anger, of bitterness, stood in the boy’s eyes.

“You lied to me! You deceived me! You deceived the Spaniard and sent him to his death. Grant is -right! Irma is right! What can I do now?” “Phil! Listen to me. There is—”

“I can do nothing!” shouted Philip. “I can never ask Irma to marry me now. And, if I did, she’d be right to refuse me. Like father, like son!” “Philip! for God’s sake —” But the boy scarcely knew what he was saying. He walked about the room as though distracted whilst David watched, unable to do anything. “And I’ve been taking your part!” he cried. “I have looked up to you all my life. I thought there was no one like you, so just, so honourable. And, if I ever see Irma again, I shall have to admit that she was right—her father was right. If she married me—who knows I might one day play a dirty trick —betray someone —murder someone! ’ ’ “Philip!” David gripped his son’s shoulder. “You don’t know what you’re saying! This has been a shock to you. I would have saved you if I'could. But when you begin to think things over more calmly—” “Calmly! How can I think calmly? Irma means everything to me —and I’ve lost her. And I’ve loved you. How can I ever trust anyone again? How can I?” The boy sobbed. David stood gripping Philip’s shoulder. The boy was staring straight before him and his face was grey and twisted with pain. When Paula had gone he had thought that his cup was full. He had been wrong. His son’s reproaches hurt him as nothing before had ever hurt him. The boy’s suffering went to David’s heart. “Steady, Phil!” said David. “You haven’t lost Irma yet. If she loves you—” • ' The boy raised his face. “Don’t you see,” he cried. “Don’t you see that I can’t persuade her to marry me now. She is fond of her father, as I have been fond of you. He won’t hear of our marriage. And he’s right! ’ ’ David walked up and down, with his hands clasped behind him, and biting his lip. Philip’s sobs ceased, and he rose to his feet, pale and shame-faced. “I’m sorry, Pater,” he said. “I’ve been a bit of a swine. Thought only of myself, but- —” He held out his hand and David gripped it eagerly. (To be Continued.)

the nationalisation of credit or the second flood, or some rot! He’s absolutely daft!” David sipped his- whisky thoughtfully. He looked tired and old. “And Irma believes her father?” “Yes. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s not so funny for me. In fact, it’s not funny for her. The poor kid was crying to-day. I can’t make her see sense, either. And that’s why I came to you, Pater. ’ ’ David raised his head sharply, and looked at his son. Then he hastily looked away again. In the agony of losing Paula he had forgotten Philip and his problems. Now it suddenly came home to David that he could not conceal Paula’s absence from the boy. For the moment, Philip, immersed in his own troubles, had omitted to ask after' his step-mother. Sooner or later he would ask questions; explanations would be necessary; it would be impossible to conceal the truth. “What do you want me to do, Phil?” The boy began to pace the room. “I wish you would see Irma, .Pater. I hate to trouble you; I know you’re a busy man; but -I can’t see anything else to do. She won’t listen to me. Somehow her old man has convinced her that his yarn is true. But if you were to tell Irma that there’s not a word of truth in this story about Montero she will listen to you. She likes you, and respects you. You see I want to marry Irma; without the old man’s permission, if necessary. His permission doesn’t matter two hoots to me, anyway. But with Irma it’s different, of course. Whilst she thinks there’s anything in her old man’s story, I’ll never be able to persuade her to marry me without his agreeing.” .“I see!” “Really, Pater, I feel an awful ass barging in and worrying you like this. The thing is utterly—”