CHAPTER XXVII.

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 143, 27 February 1886, Page 6

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE FATHER'S APPEAL. The next day was the Sabbath, and a perfect day it was. After dinner Rich and his companions went out for a quiet stroll along the beach ; but there were many people who had no respect for the sacrednese of the day, and the pay laughter and merry jest which passed from lip to lip smote painfully on Audrey's ear. *• Let U8 go out of this thoroughfare and climb that hill yonder," ehe eaid to Rich, and pointing to an abrupt rise of ground at some distance, they at onco turned their teps-in that direction.

They roached the hill and began the ascent ; but it was steeper than they had thought. " I believe if wo should go to the top we should have a grand view of both sea and land. Shall we try it, Aunt Audrey?" Rich asked, as they stopped to rest for a moment. "You and Annie go on if you like," she returned "and I will sit under yonder tree until you come back. I do not believe I foel equal to such, a climb, although the path seems quite good and as if it was a favourite resort." So the young lovers, nothing loth, waved her a smiling adieu, and kept on up the steep path, while she turned aside to the spot which she had indicated. "Dear children," she murmured, looking after them, "how hopefully and fearlessly they climb the difficult way ! I hope thair life-journey may have no road so rough Still, whatever it may bo, so long a tthey love one another, they can be happy and content." Che spo where she had told them she would wait was just a little aside from the beaten path, shaded by a great tree and a lv c i ant group of dwarf evergreens, whilo just behind these there was a huge boulder, which evidently had often served as a resting-place for some weary climber. Audrey sat down upon it, drew hor light shawl about her, folded her hands idly in her lap, and gazed off upon the ocean. Behind her were the evergreens and the great trunk of the tree ; beyond the beaten track and the hill, and before her the va3t, beautiful expanse of water. " How beautiful it is !" Audrey murmured. "Who, looking upon it now, would believe it could ever be lashed to fury by an angry storm ? The very sight of it, with this lovely twilight stealing so gently over it, makes one feel peaceful, restful— almost content." And who looking upon her in her calm beauty, would have believed that her soul had over been tossed, and rent, and torn by angry, rebellious inward tempests, which have threatened to wreck both life and reason ?" She fell into a reverie, and tho time slipped unheeded by. She could not have told how long she sat there, but eho suddenly became conscious of approaching footsteps and the sound of voices. She erlanced back, thinking Rich and Annie might be returning ; but she saw instead the figures of two gentlemen coming toward her, and supposing them to bo no one whom she knew, she turned hor gaze again upon the ?ea. But the two figures halted directly under the tree, although they could nob see Audroy because she was screened by the low, thick pines upon which she sat. Neither could she see them now, because the trunk of the great tree obscured them from her sight. But ?he heard a voice say : "No, I must go back on the nine o'clock boat — I merely ran down to tell you that we are not coming toptay, so that you need not retain the rooms for us." Something about thoso tones made Audrey Waldemar catch her breath and grow as white as the delicate lace handkerchief which she had tied about her throat, to protect it from the dampness. They were tono 3 which she had not 1 heard for more than twenty yeara, but she knew them instantly — she would have known them had she heard them in the most remote corner of the earth. ! She Knew, even though sho could not see him, that Arthur Halstead stood | almost in her presence She felt very unconJortable to sit there and listen to a conversation that was not intended for her ears ; but she had no to move, even if she could have bi-ought her elf to face tlie man whom she hr.d nover ceased to love. " I am sorry that Ida is down again, for I know that she had set her heart upon bsing here with your mother and Sadie, ! who will come to-morrow," replied another voice, which Audrey recognised as Mr Richard Halstead's "Don't you think," he addad, in a preoccupied tone, "that her attacks of illness ! are becoming more frequent?" " I have not thought much about it — I ; mean in the way of keeping account of them," was the answer, accompanied by a 1 deep-drawn sigh ; "we try to take them just as they come." There was a hopelessness about these 1 words that made Audrey's lips quiver, while ' she grew, if po?sibie, more deadly white. "Arthur, my boy, it has been a hard life ' for you, and lam sorry," said Mr Halstead, in a voice of self reproach — almost humility. " It is rather late in the day to talk about that,"' was the somewhat bitter retort. " You have never forgiven me, have you, Art ? I think you are a little hard upon your father," and the old man's voice was sharp with pain. " Fathrr .'" And Audrey almost cried out fn sympathy. " Why will you refer to the pa^t? Why speak of anything to remind me of it ? I obeyed your behest— l have tried to do my duty since ; if it has not brought you the satisfaction that you ox pected, let the matter rest— regrets aro worse than useless now." "But, Arthur, I am getting to be an old man — I shall soon be done with life, and — I want to b9 at peace with you. 1 ' •'At peace, father ! There has never been any quarrel between us." 1 ■ No, not an out-and-out quarrel, perhaps, but there ha 3 always been a barrier— you have never been the same son to me that you were before — before your marriage," and Mr Richard Halstead's voice was tremulous with emotion, 1 1 here was a moment of silence, then there came the constrained reply, "Indeed I haA*e tried to show you all fcho respects due from a son to his father," " Yes, you have — you have ' tried ' to, 1 Arthur," was the sad responee ; "it has not been a sp-mfaneous offering — your manner and attention to me have been prompted by a sense of duty alone. Oh, my son, I have been only too conscious that I forfeited ' your affection more than twenty years ago, and it has been a source of great sorrow to me. Forgive me, Arthur— l have longed to say this to you for years, but could not bend my proud will to it. I see now," and his son wondered at the stress laid upon that word, " I realize now that I did you a 1 great wrong. I know that it must have been very hard all these years to have your life so cramped and warped as it has been, though you have, as you say, done your duty most nobly, and have been so patient and pelf-denying through it all." "Don't, father; I am sure I cannot understand why you should bring up this eubject just now ; but I do not feel as if I could talk about it — it touches mo sorely, and— l thought I had overcome so much." This last in a tone of sad, self-reproach. •'I am very sorry if I have wounded you afresh," Mr flalstead returned, humbly, " but somehow I feel as if I could not let you go back home to-night without having everything all right between us once more. Take my hand, my boy, and say you forgive your father for that great wrong which, though he can never repair, he bitterly repents." An oppressive silence fell upon those two for several moments as they stood there in the gloaming— one with his heart still strangely sore with bitter memories of that

early disappointment and suffering; the other, humbled, conscience emitten, as he j realised how his promising, brilliant son had ' been hampered all his life by an invalid ! wife, when if he had been allowed to follow he promptings of his own heart, a glorious < woman, a happy borne, and "beautiful loving ' children might all have been his. Did Arthur feel something of the sweet presence near him, as he stood there, his ' better nature struggling for the mastery 1 Did some holy influence touch and move him, as Audrey, her face buried in her hands, tears raining through her delicate fingers and a mighty yoarning in her soul, besought tho Power in which she trusted to reconcile those divided hearts and ppeak, "peace " between them once more? Something surely touched and softoned him, for as ho looked upon his father it seemed as if he had suddonly grown old— as if his white hair was whiter than over beforo, his form less strong and erect, his faco more wrinkled aud worn ; and, with an irresistablo impulse, he put forth his hand and grasped that trembling one extended so nppealingly to him, all tho bitterness of the past melting instantly and for ever away, the old affection of his boyhood returning to occupy its p'aoe. "Yes, father, I will — I do," ho said, heartily; but, with emotion, adding: : 'I confess the wound has rankled duiing all these yeara, and T have done wrong to allow it ; b«t from this momont all unpleasantne&3 shall be wiped out of existence. Thero shall not be so much as a cloud botween us." " Heaven bless you. my son !" It was spoken tremblingly and with difficulty. "I believe I feel something as that father of old must have felt when ho said, ' This my son was dead and is alive again ; he was lost and is found. 1 " Then Mr JTalstead, quietly wiping the tear 3 from his eyes, said : 11 1 suppose, Arthur, if you are to catch tho evening boat, wo ought to go ;" and turning, they went down tho path together, tho younger man supporting tho oldor ; while Audrey Waldemar aropo and looked after thorn, a song of praiso mingling with the sad memories that had been so deeply stirred within her heart. Her toars were falling fast : but she brushed thorn asido and strained her ga/e, hoping to get ono glimpse of tho man whom sho had loved for so many years for ono look at his faco— that dear face, every feature of which was even now, plainly stamped upon her heart. Eut she was denied this Sho could only see the manly form, tho shapely hoad with its clustering hair, and the iirm, strong hand which vested upon his father's arm and steadied his descending footsteps. A smilo broke through hor tears, like a ray of sunshine, through clouds, though sobs •which she could not repress shook hor frame rudely, while sho murmured fervently : | "They are at peace. Thank fleaven ! even though it comes so lato ; for a fathor and an only son should not be at variance." Throe days lator, in tho quiet of hor own \ room in New York, she read that Richard Balstead had suddenly dropped dead in tho hotel at that summer resort whoro sho had so recently seen him, apparently well and strong and with many yoars yet before him. "Apoplexy," tho physicians called his di?ease ; and to his wife and daughter, who were with him at the time, it was a comfort to know, even though tho blow had come so suddenly, that his death had been instantaneous and painless. Thoy took him homo to ilalstead Farm, and laid him to rest by the sido of the many who had gone before ; but two hoorts, at least, were thankful — wore Thankul even in the midst of sorrow — Arthur Halstead, that he had freely forgiven his fathor and had become reconciled to him before tho great reaper, Death, had come ; and Audrey, that the man whom she fit-ill loved would not have his conscionco burdened with tho thought that he had refused his pai .it's la3t request.