Short Story

Clutha Leader, Volume XXXVI, Issue 51, 7 December 1909, Page 7

Short Story

[The following story ivtu placed third in the Competition for bist short story at (he Duaedin Oompeiitious, 1909. |

the Magic touch.

By "Jessica."

Perhaps it was the attractive setting in which Joyce Melville was placed that made her appear so desirable and so exceedingly fair in the eyes of many men. She was the only daughter of the owner of Longridge Station, and besides the property being valuable and the homestead picturesque, and her father's banking account was said to run into a very decent figure, Joyce was a typical Colonial girl, whose accomplishments ranged from poetry-writing to scone baking. Cap able, optimistic and altogether womanly, she faced the world with glad eyes, and a heart filled with the joy of living, and the " wonder of be ing." She held up to date views too, I for she believed in platonic friendship, and had been " chums" with Jim Macleod, the son of a neighboring run holder for many years. When Dame Rumour with her customary officiousness predicted a match between them, Joyce laughed a scornful little laugh, not unmixed with contempt. " Do you know " she would say in her frank fearless way, " I feel so sorry for those little-minded people who don'i believe in the friendship between a man and a woman. Their outlook on lify in general must be very much restricted."

Joyce' " platonic friendship plant '' grew and flourished until the inevitable " other fellow " appeared on the scene in the form of Jim Macleod's friend from Dunedin, Alan Murray, who, being tall and very dark, presented quite a striking contrast to his friend. So tall was he, that, after that merry Christmas time, when the two young fellows haunted Longridge homestead daily, and had .just the "jolly good time " which all young fellows delight in, Joyce could never see any other figure but Alan Murray's on the horizon of her life.

On the last happy night which the friends spent together in the comfort able drawing room at Longridge, Alan Murray sang in his rich baritone, "If to remember me is pain; then remember me no more." These lines haunted and strayed through Joyce's memory. She wondered dully if he gussed her secret, and wished to make ber understand. that her love was hopeless. Then he went away. She wondered if he really would come back again. Some very wise folk thought he would. He was but a city clerk, and the Longridge acres and' big banking account would be very bandy. Jim Macleod wondered if he had acted wisely for himself in taking his friend to Longridge. • • • • •

My Lady of Promise the sweet Spring-time herself, robed in shim mering green came dancing o'er the fields, wooing the sad old earth back to life and tender beauty, Her spirit" breathed everywhere, in the gardens, in the fields, and in the forest sanctuaries. "I love you, I want jfau," she whispered to the sleeping flowers, and they opened their eyis to snub at the Lady of Wonder with the eyes of gladness and violet-scented breath.

Joyce Melville held the first crocus bud in her hand, and her soul thrilled with ihe wonder and sweetness cf Spring. She fingered the fragile blossom with tender touch,—Spring's pledge of constancy to Summer.

" A thing of beauty is a joy for ever," she said softly, and the wonder deepened in the girl's gray eyes. "It must be the beauty of truth and purity and love. How very beautiful the spirit of Spring must be, filled with Hope's loveliness,-and fragrance and sweetness. I wonder," Then she stopped and shrugged her shoulders. " This will never do," she said in her most matter : of>fact tones. " I must go for a ride."

No cne ever knew just .quite what happened that day when Joyce Mel>ville rode swiftly through the sweet spring sunshine trying to calm her soul which was stirred to the depths with the intensity of her thought?. She herself had but a dreamy recollecti n ol it afterwards. She knew that she rode a long, long way over the ridges. She knew too that Bluebell, her favorite mare, was in splendid form, that she took the gates in her best style. Joyce had never felt so elated on horseback before, and she was conscious of the glamour of Spring over her senses. She knew that the spirit of promise was breathing everywhere, that breezes wafted love fragrance through the air that the Spring's soul was communing with her's . . . And then her soul awoke, and understood. Her soul had a voice; it was beautiful, it was clear, and the world would bear it. The message of the Spring time would be her's. Hope—a thing of beauty and a joy for ever, glad and wonderful and sweet and' immortal. She remembered turning her horse's head down the old bridle track leading down the valley towards the river,ford. She knew that the sheen of the . setting sun's rtflec* t'on in the water dazz'ed her eyes, and >he recollected'giving Bluebell a smart c ut with her daiiUy-rising whip while descending a somewhat steep incline. • . . Then there was a crack. . ,

Joyce never cared to think about it af« towards, and the animal plunged unseating its rider, and tfcr<wi

ing her forward against some large stones

j The mare had stepped into a rabbit hcrte, and broken her leg. She lay struggling violently. CLbe by th; riverside, with htr white, s <e,t face so neaj to the glean> i- g water Jim Macleod found the slim fi n r p m uie torn habit-laying unconscious and so still that his heart cor.« tracted with fear. Arid then, because he was a man, selfish and he gathered the unconscious girl veiy close to his heart, and took his fill of Kisses from her lips before he carried her to her home.

Joyce was fortunaite in escaping witfi but a good shaking and a nasty cut on the brow, the result of her being thrown against the stones, thus causing her to lose consciousness. Bluebell had to be shot. • » • • #

j It was two days af'er her accident that Jim MacLeod asked Joyce to step ovei; the line which divided friendship from love, £>he was reclining on a deck chair on the verandah, and he was sitting by her side. She still looked very palf, with dark rings round her deep grey eyes. The breezes had blown a ringlet of her brown hair over the ugly scar on her high white brow. " Oh, Jim, don't," she cried in her characteristic impulsive way. '• lam so sorry. You've spoilt our happy friendship."

"Is that all you are sorry for ?" he asked shortly. '• Oh, no; but I never encouraged you to think of anything else. You know I didn't, Why, we were such good chums," " Yes, that should make it so much easier," he pleaded. "No, you don't understand," said 'he girl quietly. "There is such a vast difference between friendship and love. We can be friends with many, hut we can only really and truly love but one."

"Then there is someone else,?" bit terly.

"No, there "is no one else," said Joyce steadily, although the color rose high in her cheeks, under his keen crutiny. " I'm afraid that tell-tale color tells a different story, Miss Joyce," said the man mockingly, for the bitterness ol it ail was eating his manliness, " I think the heiress of Longridge could 'ook somewhat higher than a city clerk." '

" Don't be silly, Jim, over it all."

Then her eyes grew wide and luminous with a great thought. " The ' heiress of Longridge,' as you call her, will not look higher than the on. around whom Love sheds her sweet halo, and—even if he were a stone bre .ker on the road she would marry him, and count it a privilege to help him live his life. But," and her voice took a soft deep cadence, "perhaps that is. not for me ; I must cultivate the voice of my soul, and give it utterance."

'• I do not understand you," he said, and left her abruptly. " Poor old Jim," she murmured, a? she watched him go, "He is in a temper now, but he will get better and come back sortie day. This has broken my ideal of platonic friendship, but it is possible—with great natures,'' Ah, yes, little philosopher, platonic friendship is more than possible : it exists to day'pure and sweet and helpfu', among men and women with great soul. But your soul has grown away from your one-time friend. It has com muned with Nature's spirit, learned ot her wisdom, caught some of the beauly of Nature's God, and it will be satisfied with those on lower levels never any more.

It was a great shock to everyone wlien it became known that the owner of Longridge had speculated not wisely but too deeply, and that his property, 'ncluding the beautiful station home, had to go the hammer. Joyce felt stunned, but faced the situation with characteristic hopefulness, and was quite cheered one morning when she caught sight of Jim Macleod riding up the road. " Faithful old boy; 1 knew he'd come back," she whispered softly, and went out to meet him.

'• Oh come ye in peace or come ye in war, or to condole with us, oh friend?' She cried in light tones as sumed to hide deeper emotions? Jim Macleod looked on this girl with the brave eyes and the true heart, and wondered how he would tell her—what he had determined to tell her. Her bravery and sweetness maddened him, and—jealousy is cruel as death. "I have just returned from Djne din," he said almost gravely.. " I happened to run against Alan Muiray and took the freedom to tell him of your misfortune-" " '

" Yes ?" said the girl quietly as he hesitated.

"He sailed for Durban yesterday. He did not burden me with any mes sage for you," v The man's hard blue eyes searched the girl's face. Joyce smiled—her ancestors had been soldiers. Her smile was defiant.

"Thank' you," she said almost defiantly, "Now'l know you want toste Dad," and she led the way indoors.

The mistress of Folkstown School, Joyce Melville, sat in a dejected atti lude at her table, and gave her thoughts leave to run riot over the past. The dwellers in "the sunny realm of childhood, whose young ideas it was her <j% to shoot

and bud, had betaken themselves home, and she was left in solitude.

It was three years since she had been appointed mistress of that little school, on the brow of.the hill facing the straggling back-block settlement" of Fulkstown. Three years since that Sprfpgtime when her soul awoke to the ritality of its possession of a voice to speak to world hearts, and it was still silent, though pausing for utter ance.

The years had been strenuous ard love-hungry, moulding the girl's character into greater strength, and finer beauty. Once again tendervoiced Spring was whispering to the Earth. " I love you, I love you,' and the glamour of its mystic presence was stealing over Joyce Melville's soul. She lojked through the win dow, away to the towering mountains, blue in the distance. Then she rose quickly and donned her hat and coat, and went out into the Spring twilight. Her way led through the bush, and the beautiful tranquility always pervading it crept into her heart. She sat down on a mo c sy stump in one of Daine Nature's own receiving bowers. A silver stream trickled at her feet and ferns grew verdantly-among the mosses. '' If love's voice spoke to me like Spring whispers to the earth,my soul would respond gladly, gleefully, and it would speak with its voice." Her eyes grew dark with the gladness of the thought.-" Bui that can never he; I had one friend whose fiiendship prove to be a very selfish thing, and anothei who fled when Fortune deserted ib-, No, the world shall never hear my soul voice j the harp of my heart shall remiin mute for ever on earth. So let ambition rest on in her grave."

And Joyce Melville rose and walked home to her place of abode.

Joyce Melville held in her hands a I tter from over the. sea. Her eyes grow wide with wonder, bright with joy, and dim with tears as she reads. Shall we read it als 1 ?

" Dear Little Girl.—Years ago—it seems like centuries—l 1.-ft New Zeas land and you, without one word of exp'anauon to anyone. I had been -told" by one, with whom you had been friends Irom childhood, that you were a heartless coquette, that you had allowed him to hold you in his arms and kiss you not once but often, and that when he asked you to many had mocked him . , . My"'feelings

could not be analysed. Ido not say thai I quite believed it, but the only practical conclusion I cou'd arrive at was that you loved him, and were only tantalising him for a Hub, bu would marry him in the endi;; T1 e thought was unbearable to •««!; can you understand why, little one ? He He was rich too, and I was struggling, so I went away to forget. To night the mail brought me a letter, which explains everything, even your loss of fortune, and we can exterd our for>giveness to Jim Maeleod, because his confession was written on his death, bid and he is. now beyond the reach o! all earthly things, ... I am writing this aside my carnpsfire—dug out of the very wilderness, and as 1 g ize on the glowing embers, I wonder what are your thoughts when you Md these lines. Alter being out here a bit, I fancy the sun and the wind i id the air enter your blood, and then you're an African. Out here one cmnot gratify any inclination for any love of color, but on the canvas of my memory your dear fac? is as clear prin t d as ever : I have carried your image in my heart through the long barrenyears, and I have not learnt to forget. \nd I want to know if 1 can come home and find the light of love's welcome shining in your dtar eyes. On a ittle word will satisfy me if that word i, " Come."—Yours ever,

Alan Murray'

The d ar lights o' love shone in Joyce's eyes on a certain day when a t H dark min came from over the sea i ; ar.swer to her " Come," Such deep t nder eyes he had, and a voxe which alone had power to awake into thrilling sweetness the voice of her soul. Love Mnote on all the chords of her soulh irp, and the wor'd now hears its hope messages, which carry love and tenderness, and gladness to many hearts. The voice of her soul found utterance when love taught her to live for another, The joy of giving of one's own self to ether's is hers now. Ar.d y#t, some say love is a little thing —of no v.ilue whatever,