WILFRID'S FINAL.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume L, Issue 61, 2 November 1907, Page 4

WILFRID'S FINAL.

We were at breakfast when papa announced the coming of Wilfrid. "What, to live wjith us!" I eried aghast. "Yes." "For always!" "My dear child, of course not!" Wlieu papa calls me "his dear child," like that, I know something has happened to upset him. So I discreetly left him to pursue the conversation or not as he liked.

l'apa is a doctor and we live in the country. It is dreadfully dull, of course, because nothing ever happens that hasn't happened a hundred times before—at least, very seldom. There has just been an exception, however, and papa is very put out about it. A new doctor lias arrived and actually had the audacity to put up a brass plate in opposition to his. For years papa had been the only medical man in the place, and so is rather naturally annoyed. Moreover, Bryan Fclton, M.D.—it's rather a nice name, I think—is young, decidedly good-looking, and dashes about the place in a smart g'gI passed papa his second cup of coffee, and it seemed to remind him of my existence, for he re-opened the conversation about Wilfrid. "It appears," he said, glancing at the letter he was holding, "that the idol has not been behaving very well lately." We nicknamed Wilfrid "the idol" because of the absurd way in which Aunt Adelaide worships him. "Oh!" "Yes. He is in for his final next October, I understand, and should be reading hard, instead his mother tells me "

"Is that a letter from Aunt Adelaide!" I interrupted. "Yes, and not the first I've had on the subject of Master Wilfrid and his doings." I stretched out for the letter, but papa put his hand quickly over mine. "Mayn't I read it!" I asked, surprised. He hesitated frowning, and then smiled. "You're a sensible little woman, Kate, so you'd better read it. You'll need to know the details, and it will tell you better than I can."

It was all about darling Wilfrid, of course, and there were many pages of it. It appeared he had fallen in love

with his sisters' French governess — hopelessly ,desperately, and with all the ardor of twenty odd years. That was his crime. Aunt Adelaide went 011 to say that as far as dear Wilfrid was concerned, she was sure it was only a passing fancy, but the woman might prove troublesome. She always dis-

trusted foreigners. Moreover, this affaire du coeur was interfering with Wilfrid's reading, and she was afraid lie would fail ignomlniously in his examination. (Wilfrid, I must tell you, is following in papa's footsteps, and is to be a.doctor). Lastly, would we help her out of the difficulty hv having the boy for of months? Otherwise, she would be obliged to get rid of Mademoiselle, and this she was loathe to do. as she had brought the girls on so well In their French. "And you've agr<y>d?" I asked, looking across at papa. "What else could I do, dear?" "Oh, nothing, of course, but "But, what?" "Well, T don't think Wilfrid will do much reading down here, you sec " "But me must make liim, you and T. Kate." "I, pa.pa? Why. Wilfrid would as soon think of olivine the eat as doing anything I told him There's only .1 couple of months' difference in our ages,

you know." "Tut. tut! Never mind about that; you've twice as much common sense, anyhow!" So two days later the idol appeared 011 the scene. To Ik> quite candid, I was rather dreading his coming. I had not seen him since he left school and had visions of an untidy, overgrown schoolliov suffering from his first attack of love-sickness.

I was, however, quite disillusioned. There was nothing lovelorn about Wilfrid. He shouted a greeting to nie long before the carriage stopped. Then he sprang out and commenced hauling his belonging after liirn—hat-boxes, umbrellas, golf-clubs, etc.—as though his very life depended on it. ''Your pater's in a hurry," he explained with his back to me and struggling with a jMH'lmanteau. "Yes. dear," papa called out from the depths of the carriage, "I've had an urgent summons. Lady Green is worse, and 1 must make haste or they'll get impatient and send for the vulture." By "the vulture" I presume he meant Dr Pel ton, but before I could enquire, the carriage vanished. Then Wilfrid turned to me and we shook hands. "]!y .love, Kate, how you've altered since—since " "We last met, Wilfrid." I laughed back at him, "and improved? Do say you find me improved. I'm sure you must, for the last time we saw each other I was wearing my hair in a plat, which you rudely called a door-knocker, do vou remember? Now come, and I'll

give you some tea." ''Thanks. I could do with some," he confessed with a smile that made his plain freckled face quite attractive. "But how about my traps?" When I set his mind at ease 011 this point, we walked round to where they had laid tea for us on the lawn. "Now this is what I call ripping!" exclaimed Wilfrid, seating himself comfortably and running an appreciative eye over the tea-table.

"Ves, I love tea in the garden. Of course, you take sugar, all bovs—men do!"

While I poured out he gave ine an account of his mother's health and the doings of his five sisters. "I always have wonderful luck, you know." he remarked suddenly, helping himself to some cake; "when the mater insisted upon my coming down here I must confess T didn't see the urgent necessity of it "

"That's not altogether complimentary to papa and me, you know. Wilfrid." I ''But I'm jnllv glad now that I came, in spite of—of " "Of the fact that we're just two prosy, sleepy, country cousins?" "Now, you know, Kate." he protested, blushing crimson. ''l never meant that. But T am deuccdly lucky—really. Your garden's ripping, and T see you've ,1 lennis court. Do you play golf, much?" 1 couldn't,"

"What about your books, Wilfrid?" I [asked sweetly, remembering papa's injunction about leading the idol into better ways. "Uli, I've brought 'em along all right," he replied; "but, hang it, a fellow can't swat at books all day, can lie!" Then he grew suddenly thoughtful, and, for some inexplicable reason, very embarrassed. lie had demolished a plate of cucumber sandwiches and was, 1 fancy, half through his third piece of cake when this occurred—not that I which to insinuate that this was the cause of his uneasiness. '■Of course, the mater told you why I've come down lr>re?" he asked suddenly, looking at his'bootS. "She said you wished to get some reading done before your exam.," I replied guardedly. "Rot!" he burst out, "I beg your par-

don, Kate, but that really is—rot! It's Kenee, that's what it is." This was a turn in the conversation I had not in the least anticipated. I feigned ignorance. "'Kenee? Who is Renee?" "She is the girl I'm engaged to," ho replied, inflating his chest, "and the sweetest and best " "Do have some more cake?" "Tluinks, but I still have some," lie went on, searching in one pocket after another; "I'm sure I have one about me—all—here it is! This is Renee."

I Look tho photo and looked at it. Renee was decidedly pretty, I must admit. So much was due to Wlifrid. "I hope you won't mind my—my talking about her?" he said with an engaginii smile, "you're so sympathetic, somehow, Kate, that a fellow could talk to you about—about things he wouldn't dream of—or " "Are you sure you won't have some more cake? Do." "No, th..nks. What I mean is that

a fellow naturally wouldn't talk about his private affairs to just anyone. May 1 tell you all about it?" I sighed. But he did all the same. And when papa came out to us an hour later lie was still telling me. "Don't do that, Wilfrid, please!" "It doesn't matter." "Yes it does, indeed!" ;

Then I looked quickly up at him. It was three weeks later, and I was sitting out on the lawn under the big ceda.'. This was a new Wilfrid. His expression was lowering and black as a thundercloud. I racked my brains for an explanation. Then in a flasli X remembered he had received a letter by the first post. "Why, Wilfrid, what in the world is the matter?"

He stopped kicking at the cedar and looked at me gloomily. "It's Eenee!" he replied, thrusting liis hand deep into his pookets.

"Why, what is the matter with her? Not ill, I hope?" He laughed, but not as he generally does. It sounded something like the villain's laugh in a melodrama, and I think he meant it to.

'•III? No, she's not ill! Don't you worry about her health, Kate!" Then be laughed again. ''She's given me up, that's all."

"No!" I cried, incredulously. "You don't mean that?"

"Well, I shouldn't say so if she had not," he replied, reproachfully; "read that." He handed me Renee's letter. It was short and in bad English, but very much to the point. She gave him to understand that she could not afford to ignore the wisdom of the old saying that a bird ill the hand was worth two in the bush, and she was going to marry the curate.

"Women are so extraordinary—soso unaccountable," the idol burst out, striding up and do\yu in fiont of my chair, "they go and ruin a man's whole life just for a whim, a passing fancy —"

"Oh, Wilfrid, you mustn't talk like that," I cried in tones of horror, "you must be brave. Forget her—forget Rcnec and think of your mother, aud work for her sake."

"Don't preach!" he replied rudely, and turned his back upon me. It was a3 well he did do or I should have laughed in his face. Then he, strode away towards the house, wounded dignity in every line of his figure. He had just disappeared when Dr Felton's gig swept round the corner and came bowling along towards tne house. And then a wonderful thing happened. Instead of dashing past as usual, it drew up at our gate. A second later, Dr Felton himself hurried in, and, catching sight of me, crossed the lawn. "Miss Martin, I regret to have to teli you there has been an accident—a carriage accident—your father "

At hia words the lawn and the tre-'S and everything to spin round mo. He caught both my hands and gave mc a gentle shake. '•Come, come, you must be brave,' he. said with a stuile, "it's pretty bad, I'll own, lmt it might have been much worse." But I was not nearly so siily as to faint, really. '"Have a room got ready for him at once, while I go back and meet them." then he was gone as quickly as lie bad come, and I llew into the house.

Tluit was the beginning of a viry strange time. Papa was in bed th'T-e weeks, and I nursed him.under Dr Feiton's orders, and with the idol to assist. And, strange to relate, papa took a violent liking to Dr Felton, aud never again referred to him as "the vulture.'' It is ieally wonderful how quickly a friendship can spring up under certain circumstances.

One evening, when papa was convalescent and sitting up agnin. he asked me to sing to him. So I re-arranged his cushions for him and went to the piano. The French windows, that looked into the garden, were open, and I could s_e the idol sitting under the cedar pretend ing to read a book on surgery. It was a beautiful evening and the recent ram had brought out the scent of the flowers, making the air delicious. At the second verse of my first, song Wilfrd's chair was empty. With tne hist he lounged into the room. He is very fond of singing and likes to turn over my music for me. When I had sung all papa's favorite songs we suddenly discovered he had i alien asleep, so Wilfrid snuffed the candles Then he leaned his elbows on the piano, and stood solemnly staring it me. f ltad taken considerable pi'.i's "•itli my toilette, I remember. Do"tor Felton had got into a way of dropping in to dinner—or just after—very oft?n. Papa liked him to come so that they could talk over their patients. The idol was uuusuallv serious.

' You know. Kate." he began doubtfully, "1 think 1 made a mistake about - about Hence." I quite agreed with him, but thought i. 1 would pound rude to say so. "Yea, I think I didn't quite know my inlad, you know—that rose in your hair looks ripping, Kate—but I've learat a great dc;il since I came down hero." "(ill, I'm so glad, Wilfrid," I said earivstly, "for I know how anx'ous Aunt Adelaide is for you to get lhroiif.li your final." "Oh. Suit I didn't mean that kin' of tiling" he replied quickly. "I lili't jint Oit. jefer to medicine. r»ri- I re all p mepnt is .that I've learnt » .u.iii should not look beyond his own country for a wife. You've taught me so much. Kate.'

Poor lienee! In a brief six weeks it appeared I had, all unconsciously, supplanted her. I am a brunette, fn'e feet seven in height, and generally considered the reverse from plain. It was Ihe music, I suppose, or the cream rose in my hair that had gone to the idol's head. ''l know l'vebeen slacking, Kate," le continued penitently, "and shirking my reading, but when that beastly letter eame. von know, it made me feel I didn't care what happened. But now—now I'm jolly glad it did come. I mean to work, to read night and day for my final. I mea| to get through for your sake, Kale, as well as the mater's." •lust then a tall figure appeared at the nearest window and after a moment's hesitation stepped into the room. 1 sighed with relief for this timely interruption. It was Dr. Felton in a mackintosh from which the rain was dripping. Wilfrid muttered something which did not sound like drawing-room language, and glared ferociously at him. ' '■Why. Wilfrid!" I exclaimed, starting up. "it's pouring agsin. and you've left vnur books out under the cedar."

Then papa awoke and asked Dr Felton to stay to dinner. He did, and we had a vi'i'y jolly evening. The only discordant note was the idol's behaviour. He was not hi-- usual good-natured self, and exceedingly rude io Dr Felton into the .bargain. Happily, however, lie took himself oft' to bed early.

It is the third week in October, and this morning f had a letter from the idol. He says:

"Dear Kate, —You will lie glad to hear T have just managed to scrape through my final, vrf no small thanks to yon! The mater nearly had hysterics. One would think I had been

made President of the Royal College of Surgeons. By the bye, I have jnst. had a letter from Bryan Felton asking me to be his best man at your wedding. I think it's awfully decent of him, and shall, of course, be delighted to assist on that happy occasion. lam writing him by this post. I think it a very cute move on your part, keeping the patients in the family, you know.—Always your affectionate cousin, Wilfrid. P.S.—Did you ever meet Christine Probyn? She is a cousin of the Moxon's who live close to you. She chummed up with the mater and the girls at Folkstone and is now staying with us. She's splendid, and I should like rou to know her. —W." —C. W. Law ton, in M.A.P.