'TWIXT WEALTH AND HONOUR.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 5, Issue 161, 31 March 1916, Page 3 (Supplement)

'TWIXT WEALTH AND HONOUR.

(From "Tit Bits.") UNCLE GEOFFREY'S ULTIMATUM. Complete Short Story. In the quiet room m his Bioomsbury lodgings Alan Chesney sat at breaklast. He was eating mecnanically, for his thoughts were many miles away. That morning Alan had come to a decision. He had decided to send in his resignation at the office and enlist immediately. ' After dallying for months irresolute, he had told himself that he must tread the primrose path no longer. Others better than ne had gone; he must go too. Moreover, there was Sybil. She had been the. first to urge him to cio the right thing. Never had her love shone more truly in her eyes than when she spoke, tne words which would send him from her. But it was hard to leave England and Sybil, hard to leave the pleasant life of comfort, hard to go forward to the dim unknown with aii itcs terrors. "Weil, it's got to be done," he murmured, bravely, " and the longer I put it off the worse it is. Yes, 111 take a day off from the office and get the job over." Rat-tat' The postman! A moment later the maid entered with a letter which bore the Merton postmark. "From Uncle Geoff," he said, as ne tore it open. "Not often that old boy writes to his undutiful nephew. Wonder what's u:> now." The note was characteristically brief. It ran thus : Chesney Hall, Merton. Friday. Dear Alan, —Come and see me immediately. 1 have heard a certain rumour about you that has caused me great annoyance. —Yours affectionately, G. Chesney. Utterly amazed, Alan decided to run down to Merton by the first available train, and to put off his visit to the recruiting office till the afternoon. He dashed for a time-table, found that lie could catch a train from aWterloo at 10.5, and having dispatched a telegram to the office, he flung on his nat and coat and took a taxi to the station. Throughout the brief journey he sat and wondered what on earth was it> the back of the eccentric old gentleman's curt message. What rumour had ne heard Alan had done nothing disgraceful that he could remember, and he was frankly puzzled. The train clanked into the little station. Half an hour later the young man was ushered into the library at Chesney Hall, where Mr. Geoffrey Chesney was seated by the fire, clad iL a patriarchal dressing-gown. "Sit down," he growled. "Sha n't keep you long. And now, what tne mischief do you mean by it, eh ?" Alan stared. "I don't understand," he muttered. "Don't you, sir Then 111 explain. A rumour has come to my ears -hat you are th'nking of enlisting for foreign service. Is that right or wrong.' "It is quite right, uncle. As a matter of fact, I thought of going round to offer myself to-day." ■'Oho! you did, did you?" growled tha old gentleman. "You never thought of consulting me, I notice." Alan shrugged nis shoulders. " One usually consults one's own conscience in a case of this kind,' Le replied, firmly. "Well, well," snapped Uncle L-eof-frey, "perhaps I mustn't blame you too' much. Young men will be young men. But 1 have sent for you, my boy, to tell you that you must put the idea out of your head at once. I insist upon it. '' Alan leaped up. "Unci;!" he cried, 'what- want do you mean?" v . "I'll tell you. You are my broth.,er s only son . I am not going to see you fling away your chances of life oy joining he Army. Others can do that, but not my nephew. When I die there is the sum of one hundred thousand pounds and this property to come to you. Where is to go if you are not there to inherit it ? ' . A pause followed, at the end ot which the young man said, slowly,— " I must do my duty."' "You mean that you will deliberately disobey my orders and follow your own sweet will?" M "Tf vou care to out it that way. ye-. "Very well. Now listen. People call me an eccentric man. I am eccentric. I am also firm as a rock when I make up my mind. If you go on with this resolve of yours, praiseworthy as it may lie. you will not inherit a shilling of mine. You understand? Not one shillinc." Thus did the thunderbolt fall upon Alan Chesney. It was so unexpected that he was utterly overcome. For some minutes he could not find speech. All his life ho had regarded himself as his uncle's heir, had looked forward to the time when he wou'd inherit great possessions. The clerkslrp at the office had been only a stopgap. Never could he contemplate with any satisfaction a life bounded by the four walls of commercial routine. And now —how now? "It's —it's a terrible choice that you are giving me," he sa:d, at length. "It's cruel, it's unjust." "Of course it's cruel, of course it's miiust," growled tli.o old man. "But it is my decision, my boy, and there's an end of it. You might talk till the crack of doom, but you wouldn't make the slightest impression." "But uncle " "Not another word!" shoutev o'd Chesney, as he rang tee bell. "This ,s the end of ou' - 'litorview. Go back to London and think +hings over. Write and tell me that you have changed your mind, and my will remains as it is to-day. Join the Army, and I send for Pinenr, my lawyer, and make another will . No, no, don't ay another svllable. Johnson, show Mr. Che-ncv out." * * * Passengers who sat in a certain second-class carriage on the SouthWestern trail travelling to Waterloo wondered idly why a certain young man sat in his corner with fixed, troubled eyes, ignoring everything and everybody. And indeed the face of Alan Chesney might have easily given rise to such a question. lie was racked, twisted-,and torn by the horrible problem which had so suddenly flashed into his life. An hour or two -'.nee everything nad seemed so pl.nri so easy, an now he was caught in the toils of a serpent-like tormentor. For he was young and rather weak, and two voices whispered in his brain. One voice said, "Do the right thing am; go." The other voice coo -d allur'ngly. "Remain in Englanc, and liavr. all that the world has to offer a man. The voices cried out in his ears, dominating the rush and rattle of the train. . . . , When at length bo arrived in town and sought his rooms, the cruel struggle was sti'l raging. There were moments when he lanriliM at the notion of remaining behind, there w.-re other moment* when it see nice to h'm that lie must and would rema'n. A.ter all. -.s Uncle Geoff had sn-H ti-ere were plenty of fellows t* pn. whn had nothing to lose £ vo.urt'er.

Why should he, to whom wealth and comfort meant so much, join the outgoing band? But had they nothing to lose —those others ? Had not all of them somebody whom they loved, and was not each man risking something greater than go : d—the life that God had given to him ? .Maddened by his thoughts, Alan took up that morning's newspaper and glanced at the columns. With a little cry of pain, he perceived a paragraph which r.ecorced that a certain youth, heir to a groat dukedom, a youth aged seven years less than himself, had been k-lied in action. He put down the paper with a smothered sob. "Heavens!" he murmured. "He had more —far mora to lose than I, and he went all the same." There came a tap at the door, and the maid 1 announced a visitor. It was Sybil, and she came to him with anxious eyes. "Alan," sh.e said, as she took - his trembling hand, I have had a very strange latter from your uncle- this morning. He has heard of you - idea of joining, and he wants me to use my influence to keep you back." He took the girl in his arms. " Has uncle told you of his alternative?" he asked, huskily. " Yes, yes. It is wicked, monstrous But you will go. of course. Never mind about me, Alan darling. 1 shall wait for you till the war is over, though, it be years and' years. As to the poverty, what does it matter?" He was amazed to hear her speak thus. He had always believed that she dreaded the mean, narrow life of poverty as nnic has himself, On.* lie was young, was this man, and he h.id yet to learn a great day about the heart of a woman. "I have been thinking >t all out, dear," he said, at length, "anc. 1 I—T have been wavering. I intended to appeal to you and let you decide." "No, you d'dn't," she replied. "I won't believe it of you. You might have hesitated for a few hours, but in the end you woullc. 1 have gone, 110 matter what your Sybil had said to you." And deep down in that place in the soul where the true things are, Alan Chesney knew that she was right. The afternoon post carried to a certain house in .Uerton a letter which ran thus: — Dear Uncle Geoffrey.—l have decided ; I am going out. I am as fond sf money as most men, but there are other things that a man must think of. As I don't suppose that we sha'l meet again, I wish you good-bye, an;.' remam, —Your affectionate nephew, Alan Chesney. But long before the letter reached its destination a new recruit had been enlisted in the British Army, and his name was a name that w.e know. For Alan had been true to himself, and had done the "right thing." There followed for Alan a few months of training, and then the great business of war began. With that business we hav.e little to do. Where brave men are gathered l , brave deeds will always be done, and one of the bravest deeds of all fel' to the share of Alan Chesney. But in the doing of it he was badly hurt, and he lay for many weeks in the base hospital. When he was at length well enough to return to England, he was informed that lie would be unfit for further servic". Well, he was satisfied. He had cone Jus bit, and he could do no more. There came at length the day when, in company with many other retu-n warriors, he set foot in England again, and amid the crowds who lngered o:t the platform of the great terminus he saw the faithful Sybil awaiting him. "You have c.-oric just what 1 thought you woulc. 1 , darling," she murmured, as they were in the cab, "and you are going to have the D.S.M. That's better than silly old Uncle Geoff's money, isn't it?" "Yes, I suppose so, "he said, quietly. "But I am just wondering what is going to happen to me next. You've heard about my firm, 1 suppose?" "Dad told in? about it," she replied. "But be brave, dear. You'll find something else." "Smashed up by the war, like lots of other firms,'' went on, A'an. miserably. "And to tell you the truth, dear, 1 don't feel much like going the rounds looking for anything fresh. It's hard lines, and no mistake!" Sybil did her best to comfort him, but she felt anything but sanguine herself. She knew that the firm's bankruptcy was a terrible blow to him. The prospect looked very black. True, ly? might find nnothci berth, but m j:s present condition, as he had said, a new situation held l nameless terrors. For he was just like a tired baby, thatwanted warmth, comfort, and kindness, ond cou'd not fac-.o the hardship of life. Still, lie pulled himself together; made an effort, and tried to lee cheerful. Sybjl was beside him, anc, after all. that was the great solace. A week passed. He was getting stronger every day, and be paid visits to several business friends, hoping to light upon some congenial work. But j nothing came his way, and he was beginning to lose heart, when something hastened. For he received a letter, as br'ef as the first, from the ol dautocrat at Chesney HaM, bidding him go there at once. Wonreering what new incident was toward, he journeyed again to Merton. and. on arrival at the house, found Uiuln Geolt sitting by the tire in the same dressing-gown and the earn* position he he had left him six monks previously. "Halloa!" growled he old fellow, ''l s'<w by the papers that you were irvalided home, and so 1 sent for you. Had enough of sold'ering, eh?" He seemed as cantankerous as ever, and Alan did not reply. "Your ftrm i.; broke." went on the o'd fellow with a urin. "'and now you are in a deuce of a ho'.rv Much hotter if you had taken your old uncle's advice and stayed' at home. Don't yon think so?" The blood surgoa up in -Man's head The moi-kinii voice maddened iiim. Ho turned toward* the dour v.ith a wild look. "If vnu have only sent for me z<< sneer at me and to gloat over me, I i go this instant!" be oriel, "but iu-1 hear mo lirst of all. You ask .no if i would not ratio r have stayed at home. And I an--wer you. No! No! No! 1 ve come back onlv lia'f a man. I've com.' back broke and without a prospect 1 n the world, but I'm glad I went: glad, glad, glad ! Now you've done with mo uncle, am. I've done with you, and I'm going back to the only creature on earth who II stand by mo to the end." Uncle Geoir.w grinned again. "Don't be in si oh a hurry, my hoy," ho said, in a ;u vo : co; "I don't v - t to keen you from your sweetheart, but I have sonietlrng lieie which T w..r.t to '-how you ie'ore von leave." He rose and wont to a desk, whif.'i ho unlocked, i r, un the desk li" to a document. "This is my will." he observed. "Pleas." notice the date. You will see that it is dated a few days before that interview which we had in this room on r» certain Sunday six months ago." Alan to- k trio document and scanr. -, d it mei-h. -.n'i allv. Suddenlv his eye* lighted, and a crv 1 ft his In low. amazed tones, Alan read these words: Final Clause. I r.nve hereby be

queathed l my entire estate, with a few small exceptions, to my dear nephew, Alan Chesney, providing that lie is sufficient of a man to offer his services to his country during tlrs time of great national peril. If lie fad in this, the present conditions are cancelled, and after allowing him an income of £-32 per ■ annum to preserve him from destitution, my estate is to devolve upon the Institutions named in tht> following List. But Alan read no more. He swayed towards the olci- man wita a wild, eager look in his eyes. "Unc-le, uncle!" bo cried. "Why did you do this?" Mr. Chesney smiled. "Sit down, my boy, and I'll te'l you," he replied, as he pointed to a chair. "It is really very uimple. You see. I have known you all my life, and 1 had always regarded you as a bit of a slacker and a lounger. So 1 resolved to prove you, to put you to a very great test. I wanted to see if my brother's son was a real Chesney. i wanted to see if the fighting-blood, whicn ran in our vein-; in the o'd days, was running there still, or whether it had turned to water. And I found that my Nephew Alan was of the right breed after all, that lie wo'udift hold back when the hour came to go forwar;.. That's all my boy, thai s all. Forgiv? an o'd mail's whim, and shake hands." Their hands met in a mighty grip. There was a pause. To Alan Chesney, all these things seemed like u dream. "And now," said the old gentleman, at length, "it is getting late, and you must bo off. Go back to London, my boy, to your sweetheart. Sh.e'il lie wait'ng for you. And tell her what has happened. Tell her that your old ic.ot of an uncle wanted to test you, and that you stood the test well. That hewanted to find ou! the- stuff tluV- was in you. and, thank God, lie found it was the stuff that men are made of.