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Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1058, 23 August 1930, Page 23

By

CHAPTER I. “You really- want the truth?” “if you please. Sir Ridgeworth.” The famous surgeon moistened liis lips slightly as he regarded his young patient. It was not the first time he had passed sentence of death upon a man. Only yesterday he had had a ease similar to this. Curious, two of them coming so close together. "Then 1 am very sorry to say. Mr. Lennox, that 1 can hold out to you the hope of not more than six months of life. In fact, it may be less. But not more.”

“Six months,” David Lennox echoed : blankly-. He was no coward. During the war he had faced sudden death a thous- ' and times without giving it more ’ than the passing thought or prayer which may rise to the lips of any sol--1 dier. But this was different. There was i something so calculated and coldblooded in the bald pronouncement. He : found himself trembling, felt that he - had gone deathly- pale and a miser- : able faintness threatened him when he i thought of Enid Westmore. Enid 1 a nd he were pledged secretly- to marry . as soon as he had made his wav a little more in the world. She was a i rich man’s only child, petted, spoiled • and intolerably proud, yet she had : melted into the humblest of love’s ' serving-maids because she adored David. The young man cleared his throat, but even then his voice was huskywhen he spoke. , “Dr. Jackson thought perhaps you | would advise an operation,” he said. , “I would rather—” “Utterly useless, my- boy,” Sir Ridgeworth Bevans cut in. “If there was . the slightest good, you may be sure , 1 would advise It also. Nothing can do done for you. I wish to heaven it were possible.” David stared at him with dulled . eves. The great specialist was not a handsome man, but just now he appeared to his patient to be utterly re- , bhlsive. bmall of body-, with a domed head too big in proportion: slightly protruding blue eyes behind hoi-n----rimmed spectacles; the nose of an eagle, and the mouth of an autocrat Sir Ridgeworth Bevans bore a strong ; physical resemblance to the Black f orest. Yet, of his day and profession there was no one more eminent, more upon ble ° r thorouEhly to bo depended .. We had, it is true, a certain reputation for ruthlessness, not to be confused with brutality. He was a vivisectionist by conviction, an omnivorous student, a philosopher and an atheist. He rose as David was going and reached up to lay a hand on the young man s shoulder. He was shorter than David by half a head. “You wanted to know the truth, my boy, and I think you are wise. You might wish to make or alter plans to nt the circumstances—” “Yes. I shall/’ David replied. He was glad to get out of the cold clean house in Harley Street; glad to set out of tiie street itself. h.-ZL’fv fe ; tre ! t , of De ath,” he said to himself, for that was what it seemed to De. 1\ hat a gap lay- between the emotions of today and yesterday. Leaning back in the taxi-cab, he e >'? 3 f °r a moment and tried not to thmk. It was too late, now to make an excuse for the week-end invitation he had accepted to Old Ways Adrian Westmore’s delightful country house in Hampshire. His luggage was here with him in the cab, the train vvm/° l e^ Ve half an hour - Being YN hitsuntide, he had given his manservant a holiday and his rooms would be comfortless and intolerable | over the week-end. Besides, lie would j simply go mad with more than mere I loneliness, and probably blow- out his | brains if left to himself, until the first j s . T ‘; k °f the death sentence was over I *» as it only y-esterday? Dr. Jackson had said: “You’d betfer see Sir Ridgeworth Bevans. Very | Ukely he will advise an operation. I j will make an appointment for you.’ i Until then David had not imagined • there was anything very much the j matter with him other than the afteri math of a bad attack of gas poisoning. I housands of young men. had had the same trouble, and lately he had fancied himself ever so much improved. His appetite was better, his skin clear, and he had begun to put on weight. Then it appeared that a splinter of shrapnel lodged near his heart was responsible for the trouble —not the poison gas. -At least, that was Sir Ridgeworth Bevans’s diagnosis. And they could do nothing. David looked an ordinary and healthy enough specimen of young manhood as he got out of the cab at Waterloo. Tall. broad-shouldered, sunny-haired, and normally sunnytempered, he elbowed his way to the first class booking office, followed by a porter with his bags and golf sticks. The station w-as crowded with holiday makers all hurrying, jostling, good-humoured about the business of getting way. Poor human beings! Would they have acted differently had each known more or less definitely the hour of his death? David himself was not acting differently, at least not yet. The weather promised to be glorious. Old Ways and Enid—their amazing love secret; the enchantment of mid-May. It was difficult to grasp ail at once that for him there would never be another month of May. Nor any Enid. That was the strangest thing of all. How and when was he to tell her? A woman ahead of him at the booking office collided with him slightly as she reached for her change and ticket, and then her bag slipped from her hand. He stooped and picked it up for her, while she exclaimed at her carelessness. Thanking him, her eyes met David's for an instant, and he was conscious of a piercing sense of regard. Black eyes they were, set in a pale, beautiful face —the face of an angel or a devil. Where on earth had he seen her before? Or her photograph? He pushed on to the train, and simultaneously found himself luckily in possession of a corner seat, with the woman who had dropped her handbag directly opposite. .The carriage was crowded, anti for

Elizabeth York Miller.

Author of “ Conscience,” “ Carry On,” ” The Brass Box,” etc., etc.

a long hour and a-hull' David Lennox Iliad his thoughts for occupation. He had not bothered to buy any papers. There was no news at the moment which could possibly interest him. Within six months he was going to die. The renowned specialist ot Har ley Street had doomed him. He sat stiffly, staring straight, ahead, busy with the strange and dreadful idea. For it was dreadful. He had so much to live for. with youth and love and the hopo of worldly success. Curious that lie had been promised a partnership in about six months in ihe brokerage firm where he had sunk liis modest capital that was his heritage. In time lie might, have become a rich man himself, and worthy from a material viewpoint of old Adrian Westmore’s daughter. They had planned to wring Enid’s father's consent when David was made a partner in the firm. At Southampton there was no one left in the carriage but the woman opposite and David, and nobody else got in. It will still three-quarters of an hour to Stockley. Scarcely had the train started again when the woman spoke to him. She said: “I wonder if you can possibly be David Lennox?” He started slightly, for he had all but forgotten her presence. “Y r es, I am,” he said courteously. “And I seem to have seen you before somewhere.” She laughed, disclosing teeth like pearls. It was a seductive face, eyes narrowing, the upper lip lifted oddly at one corner, as though inviting a kiss. Y’oung? Possibly twenty-five or six. “I don’t think we've ever met,” she replied, “and I must be honest. 1 knew who you were from the labels on your bags. My name is Adela Montrose. I believe my husband was a brother officer of yours. He used to speak of you often.” Then, of course, David remembered. Poor Billy Montrose had fallen during the same engagement from which David, himself, at this late date, had received his own death sentence. He saw by her dress that Billy’s widow was emerging rapidly from her mourning. Well, why not? It was nearly two years ago now. Would Enid remember him vividly two years hence? He did not want her to mourn, but he hoped rather wistfully that she would not forget altogether. How often had Billy Montrose shown him the photograph of this beautiful woman? Poor, poor Billy. He had had such plans for his future, too. In a few moments David found himself talking to Mrs. Montrose as lie could never, tilings being what they were, have talked to Enid. It was a purely human craving for sympathy that would not be denied. The shock had thrown him off his balance for the moment.

She was the widow of his best friend, that friend who had gone before and who would certainly, if it were possible, be waiting for him at the gates when he passed over. The thought of Billy soothed the sting of approaching dissolution, but could not altogether rob it of its melancholy. She drew the whole story from him except, of course, Enid’s name and identity. Her lips were whiter than David's as he told her. It was a problem, and it seemed to him that he could not at once solve all its intricacies by himself. “.But doctors—eveu great doctors—are often wrong,” she said breathlessly. He mentioned the specialist’s name, and she gave an angry exclamation. “Of course I know Sir Ridgewortli’s reputation. But he ought to be hung for telling you.” Then she inquired in a lowered voice, “What are you going to do?” “I haven’t had time to t hink much about it,” David replied slowly. “You see, it doesn’t seem real to me, yet. I shall have to tell her, the girl i—l hoped to marry.” “And then?” “Oh, I don’t know—just ‘carry on,’ I dare say.” “Y’ou—you won’t do anything—well, desperate?” She made her voice carelessly light, but she was deeply moved for all that. “I don’t think so,” he replied, in a slow, matter-of-fact way. “I’m not that sort. Indeed, I’m rather surprised at myself for imposing this grisly tale on you. I suppose it was the thought of old Billy, and how we used to yarn about everything on earth, including you, that made me do it.” “Oh —poor Billy!” The young widow’s lips drooped becomingly for an instant, but it was plain that her greater sympathy lay In the living, yet doomed man. on posite. The engine whistled, and the train began to slow up. “Stockley—this is where 1 get out,” said David. “Perhaps I may see you again, some time ” “But I am getting out here, too ” “Are you?” A vague sense of alarm filled him. Adela Montrose looked up, her eyes shining with covert excitement. “Are you one of the house party at Old Ways?” she asked. “Is Euid YYestmore ‘the girl’?” His discomfited silence auswered her. “I am going there, too,” she announced quietly.

CHAPTER 11. Tho full horror of his position did not dawn upon David until that evening at dinner. Adrian Westmore usually did things on a lavish scale, but this week-end party was comparatively small. There were only half a dozen guests and the intimacy of the dinner-table with its flowers and mellow lights, the soft laughter of the women, the sparkle of iced champagne and the cheerful buzz of conversation combined to bring home forcibly to David the peculiar isolation in which he stood. At the head sat Adrian Westmore, always somewhat a skeleton at his own feasts as regarded appearance, a lean, sallow-faced man with sardonic eyes and lips; silent, observing, and as parsimonious of direct opinion as a Scotsman. His particular guest was Sir Lionel Hurst, the voluble and always smiling Jewish banker. Tijo

two men were great friends, although they had nothing in common but money affairs. Hurst was a big man, without being actually stout; black of brow and swarthy of skin, with slightly protruding brown eyes—soft as a spaniel’s—heavy lips, and small plump hands. For a man he smiled too much; and for a financier one would have said that he was far too chatty. He was always ready to give tips, whether on the Stock Market or a horse race. He liked the society of women, and ft was rumoured that a certain young actress owed her phenomenal rise on the stage to his generosity. Moreover, he was a bachelor. David Lennox disliked the banker most cordially for no better reason than that the man w-as generally to be found at Old YY’ays, aud treated Enid with the familiarity of a favourite uncle. A married couple, not far removed from the honeymoon stage: Atkinson, the sour and youngish Cabinet Minister. and Adela Montrose, made up the party. At the bottom of the table sat Enid, flanked right and left by Atkinson and Hurst. David and she could only look at each other, but the young man did not look often. The pain of parting was already too poignant for him to bear. YY’hat a wonderful girl she was! (To be continued on Monday.)