Fotheringay's Son.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 10713, 9 January 1913, Page 2

Fotheringay's Son.

( (OUR SERIAL S

£ BY ALLAN ADAIR. / Author »f "An Wand Prlfscesi," "A Marriage of Falls-

CHAPTEiIi XX. (Continued.) Then the lad rose unsteadily. Ho lurched against the pile of prizes, which fell clattering to the floor. He looked at them and burst into mocking laughter . "Sic transit!" ho said., "So pass the glories of the world, mother. The boys cheered me to the echo —didn't you hear them? —me, the son of a thief I"

l She did not answer; there was nothing to say.

1 "How was it. mother?" continued Donald. "When was it? Before vour marriage? did you know it? .'Die!' he toll vou?"

"ft wa> before our marriage," she isaid, "and, of course, he never told me! I loved him, but even I, with all my love, would rather have remained unwed all my days than marry a thief!" "When did you find out?" "After'his death. The lawyers told me of it—by his wish."

"You say he was a thief —how did he steal?"

"Ho was a -soldier. Some of the money of the mess came his way and lie was hard pressed a:;d stole it. They put him into prison for it, and when he came out he met mo and married me. 1 knew nothing of his past life."

"Is that why you have never spoken to me of him?"

"Would you have me tell you?" she a-sked, in a quivering voice, 'if you had not pressed me I should have kept it from you altogether until you were older, until the need for knowing had come."

. "Just one question more. I will not ask you after to-day. Was he a gentleman?" "If a thief can be called a gentleman. He was born a gentleman, if you want to know. When he was disgrgaced he married me. Ho thought, apparently, that a thief was good enough for a farmer's daughter!" she added bitterly.

i Donald felt a «udden pity for his mother.

"You are not a ordinary farmer's daughter, mother," lie said; and then after a pause, "Am I like my father?"

"You are like him in appearance." she said. "He wais handsomer than any man I ever saw."

"And he was poor?" "Yes, he was poor. He lived among rich people, and so lived beyond his .income, I suppose." "And that is why you do not want me to go to Oxford and live among gentlemen. You are afraid! I may -■-teal?" . .

He looked at her squarely. She hesitated.

"No,"-slid said. "I sun not >afraid that you will steal, but I am afraid of vour distinauishinp; yourself and making yourself prominent, because, at the height of your prosperity some one may point to you the finger "f scorn and say, 'Your father was .a thief!' that-is why I want you to stay up. somewhere in the North, lo live your life away from the pubiie gaze." "I see," he said "thoughtfuHv— i; i see and recognise the reasonableness of what you say." ".Donald," she cried —and for a rmmrnt it seemed as if the pent-up -"mio- | tions were breaking -down the barrier of years —'"Donald! It breaks viy heart to hove to put' a bar to stop your progress, but what was I to do, H-.y .son? Cou 1 ;! Tdo otherwise than what I have done?"

For .the moment all youthfullness had faded from bis face. "No," he said huskily, "I supple yon could not, mother." Then ho rose and went to the door. "I must have-it- out with myself, mother. I must have some time to mvself."

"Donald!" she cried. She wanted to ask him to let her share his grief, but she could not. He had so much of her temperament that he would rather go and fight it out with himself than seek the consolation of a common grief. She knew, too, that after to-night he would never refer to the subject again, although she made no mistake about what it meant to him. She knew that the iron had entered his soul.

The lad stopped on the threshold of the door.

"Yes?" ho said interrogatively. She could not find words to express her thoughts. "I have got tea ready for you, Donald," she added evasively. He looked at her for a moment. "Then we will have it together first, mother," ho said.

He paused, wiped his -forehead,, and gazed out of the window at the glow of tho westering .sun on the horizon. "It's a hard blow, mother," ho continued, "but I'm not going to sink under it. My father was a thief! Tho thought is' terrible. Yet " Ho paused again. "Do you know anything of the circumstances, mother?" "I do not," answered Mrs Lavender, in icy tones. "I only know that he used money that wasn't hf.s own, and a man who docs "that is a, thief." Donald was deep in thought for a minuto or two.

"Used money that wasn't his own," ho repeated, littering his thoughts aloud. "When he took the money he may have meant to repay it. Yet my mother says he was a thief. I must get into the open and think. tT A few moments later Donald found himself on the open moors, and there, alone in the darkness, he thought over the secret his mother iha-d told him.

He had always thought his father must have come of pentle blood. He ■Knew that he himself had thoughts and aspirations beyond his everyday companions and his ambition had led him to hopo'that he would eventually by one of the men to whom his country would be justly proud.

And now his hopes were shattered. He knew nothing of the circumstances that had brought his father's downfall —nothing but the. mere fact told plainly without entenuating circumstances. But his mother was right. He must not igo to Oxford —must not attempt to make his name famous. He must live and die in obscurity because his father had sinned,. "There shall be no more Lavenders!" he said to 'himself "Love and marriage will not be for me —T could not tell this story to any woman T loved—T simply could not I do it!"

In all the griefs and jovs of his after life he never forgot that night spent a.lone in the dark mnon, To mean, renunciation for him from beginning to end—renunciation of all that might make life pleasant and great. And it. was all the harder because his little world, which; meant the school, had looked Up to him and idolized him for the lust ten years of his life. One and all thought *•"

the one to Ik* envi°d. bnd ed them all, and a word from V" made the shyest new boy hannv and at his ease. He had fancied himself just as popular at Oxford, and now all was over. It was eleven o'clock fhe next morning when Dr Bernard called at the cottage. He was leaving Aldorlv that day, but he had come to talk to Mrs Lavender about Donald. "Well, and what do van think " r our great news?" he asked Donald's mother in n <.reninl manner. "Were you not delighted? There is not an-o-iier motlu"- in Aiderley but is eni r.vi:i.,' vou U> da !'

"Won't ynu sit down?" asked Adelaide simply. "Thank ymi! I have little time, hut T thought I must como and offer you my congratulations. You know, of course, that .Lavender will not s»■*•> up until next October? And this is strictly private, Mrs Lavender —if there i,s any difficulty of ways and means, they can lie found for .him, and nobody needs know." "Thank you!" said Mrs Lavender vstiffly. "You are very kind, but they will not bo needed." "Shall you be able to manage without? I hope you do not mind mo speaking of it, but there are nmnv expenses at a university. He will have to dress better at Oxford thar ho does here." "He is not going to take the scholarship," said Mrs Lavender quietly "I beg your pardon?" said the doctor, wondering if ho had hoard rightly. (To bo Continued.)

Donald did not fail to notico even then that thero Jiad been some preparations made for a little feast in celebration of his success as a. scholar. He felt deep pity for his mother. He understood how she, like an animal that had been hurt had sought the hidden places of life so that she might conceal her shame, while her heart was longing to be with him. to share in tho triumphs ho had won. "I am going for a stretch on the moors." &aid "Donald, when he rose from the table. "Don't be anxious about me, mother. I shall come out all right. You have known tho sfret all these years and are used to 1 it, but the revelation of it to me toI day of all days has bowled me over a bit."