THE WAY OUT.

Auckland Star, Volume XXX, Issue 145, 21 June 1899, Page 6

THE WAY OUT.

A man is a fool to take a girl out driving1 and propose to her ou the way. After he has his '.No,' it is decidedly embarrassing to be compelled to sit beside her for an hour or more. But .Joseph Burton had not lont-idcrc-tl these things, because he had expected a yea instead of a no, in whieii case the ensuing hour would have been anything but burdensome, lie had purposely selected a lonely woodland road, and the clever little mare he was driving offered no pretext for close attention. It was rather characteristic of the man that he paw the absurdity of the position, even while the pain of it Jay heavy enough upon his heart.

The girl at his side sat very erect, her gloved fingers lightly clasping a bunch of brilliant leaves. She wa.s apparently absorbed in watching the rank growth of purple asters along the fences, and he could see nothing of her face except the soft colour in one rounded cheek. A little earl of silky, black hair had blown out from under her hat and was caressing that cheek with maddening1 farniliaritv.

1 Union looked hastily away, and the little mare put her head down and trotted, clean and straight.

It was the girl who broke the silence at last, and she spoke in such quiet, controlled fashion that it steadied [jurton somewhat. '.Joe," she said, absently trying- the effect of a tiny crimson leaf against the dark cloth of her skirt, 'tell me, weren't you a little surprised? Didn't you expert a different answer?' The man shifted the reins to his other hand and fixed his eyes vacantly :<n the mare's ears before he replied. 'To tell the truth. Win, although it sou rids conceited, i dare say, I was surprised. We trot along so well together and—l thought you knew what I meant.' The girl sighed . 'I I was afraid of that. I am afraid I haven't used you quite fairly, ,Toe; but 1 know I didn't mean any harm. i don't suppose it will be any comfort to find out how near you came to getting what you wanted, but I mean to tell yon, for I am not a flirt, or heartless, or thoughtless, and ! can't hear 10 have you think so.' Burton turned and looked at his companion now. She was nervously clasping and unclasping1 the fasteners of the gray suede glove on her left hand, and slip did not lift her glance from her own restless fingers. The m-a.li waited, with grave eyes fixed upon her face. lie knit his brows suddenly, and the lips tightened as he remembered that he could never again associate that face with cheerful visions of his own future. She was only an ordinary, pleasantlooking girl; but after a fellow had ordered his life with reference to her for two years, it was not easy to give her up. At last, with an evident effort, she crossed her hands 011 her knee and began to talk. '1 did like you. Joe, ever since we were little, and when you came home two years ago L was so glad. You remember, don't you, how you seemed to lit right into my life from the first, and what good times we had, getting acquainted over again and finding out how much alike we thought and felt about things?'

She looked up for confirmation, tind he nodded silently.

'1 didn't think anything about it at first," she went on. '1 just accepted it and enjoyed it. But after a while 1 began to realise that I couldn't imagine getting along without you. 1 The hand that held the reins on Burton's knee closed sharply, but Winifred More did not see that.

'Girls aren't supposed to think of such tilings, I know." and the rounded chin was lifted a little defiantly, 'but they do all the same. I did, anyaow. and I liked to think of it. Joe, I rc»allv meant —to be your wife.'

The dear voice spoke the last words pnftly. almost reverently, then faltered and stopped. Burton reached out with elaborate care and flicked a persistent fly from- the mare's shoulder. The words "to ml your wife' were still repeating themselves in his ears, when lie became conscious that Winifred was speaking again.

'It was like that until last spring, and then—lie came home. lie was only here two weeks, you know, but I saw him pretty often, and everything was quite changed after that. I didn't care for him a bit the way 1 did for you. You and i like the same books, and the sr.me ways of having a good time, and we think alike aboit.t lots of things, lit- didn't. He'—with a little laugh— •he liked Stevenson better than Kipling, and we disagreed in—oh, so many ways. Hut. Joe, those things— the very things I have been counting on witii you —don't really matter at all: not at all. It's something quite different. Joe. something that takes hold of you and makes you forget everything else—makes everything else seem unreal and valueless. I didn't know what it meant, then. I just lived through those two weeks for the days when I saw him, and then I waked up all of a sudden, and he was gone, and 1 knew I loved him.'

She had been speaking hurriedly, and Burton was half-dazed. He knew she was talking of his own old classmate. Richard Temple, and that she was saying- that two weeks of casual meeting with that man had meant more to her than two years of close comradeship with himself. But he couldn't understand it yet. DickTemple was a splendid fellow, but not a bit of a 'ladies' man.' and certainly not Win's style. To begin with, he was a parson, and Win wasn't even religious, any more than he w 7as himself.

His puzzled eyes met the girl's wistful ones as she waited for him to speak.

'I don't understand,' he said, bluntly. She turned her face away with a little disappointed movement.

'I'm sorry. I —hoped you would. I —thought maybe you would. But I suppose you don't love me that way.'

'No,' he answered. 'I suppose I don't. I had counted on those other things, too —those things you say don't count. I liked to think that we saw things in the same way,because it made me surer of making you happy. And I was pretty sure, Win. I've known jrou ever si nee you were a baby, and I thought—l think I understood you, u.ntil last spring, anj-how. After that, I don't see. We" seemed to get along just as well as ever.'

Win flung- ■ out her hands with a little despairing gesture. 'I' know. That's just where I blame myself. I Avasn't to blame before, for I didn't know any better. And afterwards it was like this. I didn't know I cared, that way, until after he was gone. Sometimes I think if I had known

I might have made him care for me a little. I don't know. But I didn't understand until it was too late. He's gone away off there and settled down for good, and now his pepole have moved away, so he'll never come back here again, most likely. I saw how it was that 1 couldn't ever hope to meet him again, and I thought 1 would forget those two weeks and get back where 1 was before he came. That's why I tried to be extra nice to you. I didn't mean to hurt you. 1 truly didn't, Joe. I thought I could do it. 1 wouldn't give up till this very day. But it wasn't any use. When you asked me that 1 had to own up to myself it wasn't; and I'm sorrydear.' She laid a hand softly on his arm as she ended. A quiver ran through his frame, but he stared straight ahead of him with knitted' brows and compressed lips. 'What makes you so sure he didn't care?' he asked, at length. 'Oh, I can't tell exactly; buit I am sure. I should have known if he had. Onee —do you remember that day we were all up the river and he and I wont to the spring for water? He almost acted that day as if he might care a little; but it was only that once.' The frown on Burton's forehead deepened. He did remember that day, and remembered now, with unpleasant distinctness, that Richard Temple had been watching him seriously, when, with a certain laughing air of proprietorship, he appropriated Win for the row homeward.

His next question came slowly. 'Then—he might care, if he saw you again?' 'That's just the dreariness of it, Joe. He might. Sometimes I think he would. Rut there isn't one chance in a thousand of my seeing him again. There is positively nothing to bring him here, and I am a girl, you see, so I can't go there or even write to him. No, there's no way out.'

For some minutes i.ie silence was broken only by the mare's footfalls, the subdued rattle of the wheels, and the brushing of low-hanging bough 3 against the buggy top. Gradually the man's brow smoothed itself, and the tension of his lips relaxed. They were almost' out of the woods now, and another mile would bring them in sight of the town where Winifred lived. Burton checked the mare to a walk and turned toward his companion.

'Don't you think you'll get over this?' he* asked.

She answered without moving or lifting her eyes.

'Oh, I suppose so. People generally get over things, don't they? Besides, he will marry some other girl by and by, and then it will be my duty to. because it is wicked to care for another woman's husband.'

She leaned wearily back in a corner of the carriage, clinging with one hand to the side of it. She was white around the lips as if from physical exhaustion, and she did not stir nor speak until they turned into the town wheie the electric lights shone pale in the twilight.

They were likely to meet acquaintances then at any moment, and Burton felt a thrill of pitying admiration at the strength of will that braced the girl for this ordeal. She seemed quite.her usual self «"oen he helped her out at her own door, but the pallor flitted across her face again for a moment as he asked one more question:

'Tell me. Win, is it because he is good, and I'm just an ordinary decent fellow?' -

'Can't you understand? It isn't because of anything. It just is—l would make it different if I could, Joe.'

He held out tiis hand abruptly. 'Good-bye, Win. I start day after tomorrow, you know, so I shan't see you again. Good-bye.'

And, without waiting for an answer, he sprang back into the buggy and started the mare. He left the knowing little beast to her own devices on the way home. With the reins over his arm, his elbows O3i his knees and his head in his hands, he tried to think out what l;e must do with the future, that was going to be so different from his hopes. Within two days he would leave for England on business for the law firm of which he was the junior member. The mission was a responsible one, but he had undertaken it with an idea at the ! back of his head that he was going to fight not only for fame and fortune, but for Win. On the whole, it might be a good thing if the lit tin mare would forget herself long enough to valk off the high bank above the river. Bah, what imbecile cowardice! After all. she might get over it. She might find out that he was really as necessarj- to her as she once believed. If only Dick Temple had stayed away! One couldn't even have the satisfaction of swearing at him for it. He was a good fellow, much too gpod to ! swear at —a man as well as a minister. But what a fool not to care for Winifred More! Ah, but perhaps he might !if he had known how matters really j stood. He was just the sort of chap Ito stand back if he thought somebody else had a prior claim, confound him*! Well, it was nobody's fault if he did I think so. But that white-faced girl ;in the comer of the carriage—'Look | out, Trix, don't run me into the gatepost. Back, you little fool, I can't . open the door against your nose.'

Burton saw the little mare made comfortable for the night and then went in to his own supper. When he had finished he went upstairs^ took off his coat and collar and packed his trunk. His brother came up to see what he was doing, and stared in dumb amazement when Burton remarked that he meant to start a day earlier than he had planned.

'1 want to stop over a day in Christchurch,' he explained. 'I've only been through there very hastily, you know, and 1 should like to take a look at the place.'

He looked so placidly in his brother's face that that worthy was fain to believe him, although dimly conscious of a discrepancy somewhere, and went off to his own room, muttering something about, 'a blooming idiot.'

'M' yes,' remarked Burton, sitting down on his locked trunk and meditatively kicking an old shoe under the bed, 'I shouldn't wonder if I was just that—a blooming idiot!' It was in much the same frame of mind that he boarded a train a few days later, having spent just one hour in the city he had professed himself so anxious to see.

'I'm a fool,' he murmured, staring out at the racing landscape. 'A fool.' But a mist dimmed his sight for a moment and in that moment he saw the face of a girl, with white, drawn lips, and he started forward suddenly, as if to hurry the flying train. It was already dusk when he stepped from the car in a clean, thriving,

little up-country town, and quite dark when he rang the bell of a large white-washed house on a quiet street, 'Does Mr Temple board here?' he asked of the pleasant faced woman who opened the door. 'Yes,' was the answer, 'but he is very busy to-night. He always writes his" sermons Thursday night, ami people don't usually come then. Jt's about the only time they aren't bothering" after him.' She stood holding- the door open, in a slightly hostile attitude. But Burton stepped in without any hesitation.

'1 am an old friend of his nnd I wish to see him on urgent business. Will you kindly show me to his room?'

He spoke like one who expects to o-ain his object, and the woman led the way upstairs at once. Burton tapped at the door she indicated and opened it as someone inside bade him 'Come in.'

The young minister had risen to his feet and faced his visitor from the further side of the table where he had been writing. He was a tall man, and looked taller than he was because of his slight figure and erect carriage. He had the delicate, finely cut face that is an inheritance from generations of scholars and clergymen.

For a moment he looked at Burton across the lamplight, then made three steps to reach him and grasp his hand. 'Joe Burton! ThisMs good! Come in, man. Come in and sit down.' 'I'm afraid I'm hindering your work,' said Burton, with a glance at the unfinished manuscript on the table.

'Oh, never mind that; I can get it in sometime between now and Sunday. I want to talk to you, now. Here, give me your hat and coat. How long can you stay?' 'Only a few hours. I was passing through here on business, and I thought I'd stop over a train and see how you were getting on.' 'I'm mightily glad you did.' Burton drew the easy-chair offered him a little away from the lamp. He sat down in the shadow, opposite Temple in the light, and set about making him talk. He could make men talk, this close-mouthed lawyer. It was not by skilful questioning he did it. He simply looked at a man, and straightway that man turned his mental and spiritual pockets inside out for inspection. To-night he meant, as far as in him lay, to put his companion to the test, to' find out if any taint of weakness or hypocrisy lay behind the serious sweetness of that sensitive mouth and broad, clear brow. If so, this was no man to trust with such a tale as Winifred had told him. He could do better for her himself. If not—well.

The two men talked on till toward midnight, and the deep-set brown eyes in the s-hadow never left Richard Temple's face. Perhaps he felt, half consciously, the scrutiny he was undergoing, for he rose at length and walked restlessly about the room.

'I wonder Mrs James let you in, Burton,' he said, stopping, with his hands in his pockets, beside the table. 'She has an exaggerated idea of the importance of my sermon writing, and I've caught her once or twice turning away people I really wanted to see.'

'She let'me in,' Burton answered, with a lazy lifting- of his eyelids, 'but |it struck me she must be somewhat 1 given to volunteer sentinel duty. I should think you would marry, Temple, and settle in-a home of your own. You're the kind of fellow that appreciates the domestic hearthstone, and '< all that sort of thing, and young mm;- --; isters are supposed to find no diffii culty in securing a helpmeet. Aren't | your congregation anxious to see you a married man?' Temple put down the paper-weight he was handling, with a decided thump. 'They'll have to keep on being- anxious, then,' he said, 'for I'm a confirmde bachelor, I think.' A flush'was tinging the rims of the young minister's ears, and he moved the books on the table a trifle nervously. Then he laughed. 'As for that, Burton, I might retaliate, for I thought you would have I been married, yourself, by this time.' Burton dragged himself up from the ! depths of the easy-chair, shook him- | self a little and stepped forward into the light at Temple's side. 'So I might have been,' he answered deliberately, 'if you had never come ! back to Southgate.' '. Temple faced about sharply. He was much the taller of the two men, and he looked down gravely, even 1 sternly, into the other's face. 'Joseph Burton,' he said, 'do you know what you are saying?' But the brown eyes met the grey ones, unflinchingly. The answer came from between shut teeth. 'I know what I am saying. I shouldn't have come f rom Christchurch to say it if I hadn't.' Kichard Temple turned and walked to the window. He stood staring out into the night for a long time, considering that there was nothing to see except raindrops against the glass. | When he looked around Burton was standing with his hands thrust into the pockets of his sac coat, intently studying the Braun photograph of a St. Jerome on the wall opposite the desk. Temple crossed the room and laid his hand gently on his friend's shoulder. 'Joe,' he said, and his voice trembled a little, 'you have done a noble thing to-night. I wish I could thank you— for her.' But Burton shook off his touch. 'Oh, never mind your thanks,' he growled. 'Where's my coat? I've got to run for that train.' Good-bye!' Mrs James heard hasty steps go down the stairs and got up" to lock the front door. As she went back to her room she saw a line of light on the .stairway wall from under the minister's door, and shook- her head with an indignant murmur at the inconsiderate person who had kept him out of bed until such an unearthly hour. Five weeks- later, in his lodgings in Auckland, Burton opened a copy of the j Southgate paper and read among the I'locals':

'Rev. Richard Temple is making- a short visit in town.'

Burton folded the paper carefully and laid it on the table.

'He isn't losing any time,' he said, with a whimsical smile, as he drew a match across the sole of his shoe and lighted a cigar. As he watched the first light curl of smoke float and fade, a dreamy tenderness came into his dark eyes, and he spoke aloud in the empty room: r J

"But I did find "a way out," dear.' And he spoke truly, for six months later the same paper contained the marriage notice of Richard Temple and Winifred More.