TWO HUNDRED POUNDS.

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 285, 2 December 1931, Page 15

TWO HUNDRED POUNDS.

(SHORT STORY.)

Barbara Brackley knew that old Ci'oome was a miser and kept two hundred pounds in hank notes in his mattress; he had shown these precious packets to her himself, for though he bitterly kept the whole world at bay he was fond of Barbara who passed his cottage every day twice, going to and from her place of business in the little country town. The Brackley's house was a jaunty modern affair, very clean and comfortable, where Barbara lived snugly with her parents and her sister. But old Croome's cottage was tumbled down and neglected, with a thatch sagging under a load of ivy and windows padded up with paper and stuff where glass had long since fallen out. This dismal habitation stood back from the road in a-patch of ground where the miser planted and dug the potatoes and cabbages that were his chief food; for the rest, he bought very small quantities of sugar, rice and cheese at the village shop, and stale -bread at the baker's as he was a dirty ugly, mumbling ragged old man, the children used to hoot after him, the boys sometimes throwing stones, nor did their elders greatly discourage them in this expression of public opinion; every-, one despises a miser; old Croome drew the old age pension and had "savings"; but Barbara was sorry for the old man; just" because she thought he was so hateful; that, to the girl's ingenuous soul, seemed the most terrible thing in the world—to be hateful and hated. She did not think that she would be able to live if people hated her like they hated Croome. She existed in an atmosphere of kindness and love.

Since she was fourteen—ten years ago —Barbara Giad been working in a milliner's shop in Iddleford, going to and fro six days of the week with a high heart to her work; and she, too, had "savings" safely in the Iddleford bank, and one day, not so far distant, would start a little business of her awn, for she had a pretty taste for delicate articles, of feminine luxury such as women willbuy even in a small country town. Barbara had observed old Mr. Croome with pity long before she had spoken to him; coming home from the station one Saturday, very neat in a dark tailor-made just like the fashion plates, with her coquettish helmet hat, ragged flower button hole, long, pink, silk stockings and her pretty face full of energy and pleasure, she had found the old miser weary and tired on the road, and had helped him home and lit his poor fire and run his wretched errands for him; and during that next winter when Barbara went brisky in a fur coat that looked exactly like mink, she always laid out his few pennies for him and left the little store at his door, even sometimes adding a penny or two of her own when the supply was too scanty; at Christmas she took him a share of a Brackley feast and a gaudy calendar to hang on his gloomy wall, and in the spring she brought some pinks and stock plants to make a border to-his ragged cabbages. When • they bloomed, so fragrant in this forlorn spot, the miser smiled. He had not smiled for years. That ray of pale blue sky and racing clouds, of April excitement, he showed Barbara the packets in his mattress. "Two hundred pounds. Two hundred pounds."

Barbara felt very compassionate; he looked so old, so ill, oh, so very old and ill, and his eyes were shining with joy because of the two hundred pounds. "Why don't you spend it on yourself, Mr. Croome? Think how comfortable you could make yourself. You'Ve no one to leave it to, have you?" No; those he had not quarrelled with were dead; save on© young ruffian, Ted, his grandson. "He comes here sometimes—after it," snarled the miser, "after my money, the lazy hulking brute—but he won't get it, no, he won't get it— "Perhaps," said Barbara, "he doesn't want it, but only comes to see you— Mother always says, think the best and you'll bring it about Mr. Croome."

"Your mother has had a different experience from mine, my dear," mumbled the old man. "Everyone has been after my bit of money—but you, my dear. Everyone but you." "But what will you do with it —when — well, we've all got to die, Mr. Croome."

"I'll burn it," lie retorted with feeble savageness. "It's mine, ain't it? And when I can't sleep on it, handle it, see it, I'll burn it. That's why I always keep a clear lire burning—so that when I feel myself going I can take out those packehs and burn them —rather than they should go to Ted to be wasted." The old man was very ill; dying the doctor said, and Barbara came in and out the sombre cottage frequently because there was ho one else in the world he would tolerate; he shouted out if he saw a stranger in the doorway, and clawed frantically at his mattress, the first place that a thief would look, but the miser must lie on his money, must be able to thrust his hand under tlie pallet and finger the delicious wads of notes. One bloomy evening, rich with honeysuckle and 'hawthorn, and gorgeously bespangled with stars, Barbara met Ted Croome at the rockety gate; he was leaving the cottage, with the old man's curses . fluting after him on the lovely night air: he stopped Barbara and spoke to her with some emotion. "You're the young lady who has been kind to. him, aren't you? I expect he's told you some fine tales of.me. Don't believe him. I'm hard working, in the motor business. I know he's got a bit put by—l asked him to help me in an invention. I'm stuck for want of capital—l'd pay him back—cent per cent." Barbara shook her head. "His money is as much to him as your work to you, or mine to me—don't worry, he doesn't mean to be unkind." They hesitated in the flowery dusk, peering at each other, reluctant to part He was young, dark, energetic; with a thrill of delight Barbara believed in him; an incredible sweetness stole into the'breeze; silently, reluctantly they parted. Old Mr. Croome was dying fast, he would not see the flowers fade that year, nor the harvest taken in; and all day, through the summer warmth he kept i the fire whimpering on the squalid ! hearth; often he was delirous, and said tilings that frightened Barbara'; Tea came often to the cottage, flushed and resolute from his work, but seldom did ho «o. in to see the miser, but waited in the° dusk by Barbara's pinks, to get news from Barbara. Only once did he ask about the money. "What is to become of his savings when he is dead ?" > "I don't know," lied Barbara, for she was ashamed and afraid to speak of that ceaseless fi'-e she cherished on the miserable hearth; she saw the young mans face scowl, and the serenity of the ' exquisite hour was marred. For' a' week after that Ted did not come; Barbara noticed that it was a week, she had counted it up. All those evenings seemed oddly blank; and then ' one evening she did see him, commg out

of the gate as she approached it, but he did not stop but hurried away along the road whitening in the twilight. The old man was asleep when she entered the room and put her purchases on the table; asleep or in a swoon, she shuddered to see how deathly he looked, and longed to hurry away to her bright home; but the miser woke up and detained her with a feeble gesture. "I fancied Ted was here," he muttered, Barbara thought he spokej regretfully, and answered cheerfully: | "So he was; I met him coming out." Old Croome twisted himself on his side and scrambled at the mattress, but dropped back exhausted. "You look for me," he groaned; "you see if—they're safe." "Of course they're safe," smiled Barbara. Bringing the candle .to the bed she knelt down and slipped her hand into the pocket under the mattress where the miser kept his hoard. Empty. Ted going away like that —secretly. Barbara bowed her head. "Everything is quite safe," she said steadily. " Don't you worry." She rose and tucked him up carefully. " To-morrow," he muttered, "111 have 'em out and count 'em." But to-morrow she put him off, and the next day, comforting him, joking with him—searching the bed frantically the while she pretended to make it for him; well his sight was so dim, well he was rapidly sinking into the last stupour, for the hoard had gone; someone had robbed the old miser. "Oh God," prayed Barbara, "don't lot it be Ted ! " But Ted never came; and the old man was dying fast, dying and asking for his money, asking for the notes—out on the counterpane. "Why don't you give it to me, my girl? I ain't been robbed—that villain Ted—" "No, no," said Barbara passionately. "To-night, to-night you shall count it over —" "Make it to-night, for I'll be dead tomorrow—if you don't give me them to-night, I'll tell the docter, HI call the police!" Helpless on his back he raged, and Barbara soothed him and promised —to-night, :to-night— That dinner hour in Iddleford Barbara went to the bank and drew out two hundred pounds—leaving ten pounds to her credit. "In ten-pound notes, please." Two hundred pounds in twenty notes, neatly done up in packets.

When she adjusted the old man's bed that evening she turned him away on the-bed and put the notes in the secret pocket in the mattress, and then, when she had made him comfortable, she propped him up and put the money on the quilt. "You don't want the dirty envelopes, I've thrown them away." With failing senses the miser counted over his hoard while Barbara held the candle.

"Two hundred pounds—and there's some more waiting to be put into notes, shillings, pence." Old Mr. Croome's voice whistled in his head. "And now I'll burn them, my dear, help me to burn them— puli my bed nearer the fire so that I can throw them in—sooner than that villain Ted—" Jealously he fingered over the fruits of ten years of Barbara's little sacrifices, little self-denials, pleasures foregone, frocks "made over," doors of cinemas passed by, chocolates left in the shop windows, holidays not taken— "Well," he urgea, "can't you do .as you're asked—the money is mine isn't it, mine?" A change had come over the old man; a tiny flame penetrated the dross of years; he smiled at Barbara and patted her hand giving him the bundles of notes. "Why, they're for you," he whispered, "a good girl, a kind girl, they're for you. Buy yourself some pretty things—" He nodded, dropped over, and died with no mdre trouble than that, forgetting- his money at last, as Barbara forgot the money, springing up in instinctive distress to call help.

Ted was in the doorway; despite the presence of death a sense of triumph filled the wretched room. "I've not been able to get away—found someone to take my patent up—hullo, the old man gone?" He pulled oil" his mechanic's cap. "You go home, darling, darling, I'll see to this—" Barbara did not answer; she turned to leave; Ted was drawing the sheet over the bed when he saAV the scattered notes. "So you found it?" he said. "I thought he might forget to tell you—poor old fellow—" ■ "Found it?" she asked sharply. "What?" "The money. The last time I was here he didn't think it was safe in the mattress so he asked me to put it ilnder. the loose hearthstone there, so I did.' Joy flooded Barbara's whole being; she cried; "Look under the stone!" He did; and her delighted eyes gazed on the miser's hoard intact —two hundred pounds. (A.A.N.S.)