Paying Quests.

Evening Post, Volume LXXXVII, Issue 109, 9 May 1914, Page 10

Paying Quests.

By E. EVERETT-XJREEN. [All Rights Reserved.]

"Batsy Jane, what's an idyl?" .The broad-figured, russet-faced woman n-the eun-bonnet, who had come into the orchard, basket on arm, turned at the sound of the, gay lilting voice, and saw a, slim, white-clad maiden gently swaying to and fro in the swing. The russet face beamed into smiles; but the jvoice'was commendably severe. " Idle is what you are, Miss Maudie, every day and all day long whenever you are here. I don't go for to say how you behave when you're at home. . ." " Betsy Jane, I work like a coalheaver at home. At least I've always done so till now. I was being educated all the years you've known me. It'a only since we parted last time that I've finished my education, put up my hair, let down my frocks — and turned into a grown-up. Dear Betsy Jane, promise to love me grown up, and give me milk from the dairy and honey on my stolen bread. And, dearest Betsy Jane, do, do tell me what an idyl is; for I'm simply consumed with curiosity. Is it something nice to eat?" Betsy Jane began picking up redcheeked apples out of the long grass;; »be did not propose to give herself away. '""Because I heard mother and the giris tell everybody that we spent our summers in a sort of rustic idyl; and they tell everybody that this house and garden are idyllic. And I want to know what an idyl is when it's at home, and "what good it is toanybody !" "An idol is what them poor black heathens bow down and worship; and maybe that's why idleness is the beginning of a deal of the wickedness of the 'world. And if you Weren't as idle as they're made. Mies Maudie, you'd be helping me pick up apples, with the house act full as it is, and me with the "dairy and the poultry and the baking on hand. ..." - "Betsy Ja-nt>, do listen to the next thing I've got to tell you. It's awfully 'iunny, I do think, but it's quite, quite lr»e. 'I'm. going to be tnafriedl" "Bless me, Mies Maudie! But you're inly a baby yourself in a manner of Speaking!" " "t;-was eighteen lafit birthday. I'm to be* married on my nineteenth birthday. I shall be frightfully rich and grand. He's not a bit amusing; and *hd'B got. a .beard— which I loathe : so 1 'don't let him kiss me a bit often. But %&'s going to give me everything I want, 'and mother says I must ; and daddy cays I needn't if I don't want; but he'd be pleased and relieved if I would. So of cotm© I shall. It's an awful bora .he wouldn't have Matilda. It wafe. her 'first, all right enough. But when 'he'd come about the pUtce a. bit he eaid he'd: /rather have me. Mattie was rather hnffy ;aJbout it; but she's a good eor-t, and has 'got over it pretty well. But she would ;hav© done flo much better for him. Perhaps he'll change back again!" This with a. sudden hopeful elation of manner, "Betfey Jane, do you think he will?" The •wrinkled woman was regarding the wild-Tos© face of the laughter-loving girl -with an unwonted gravity. "Little Mis* Maudie" was to her a part of the joy of the late summer-tide, and linked 'tip with all sorts of sweet memories of 'happy pat* years. Such » child st2l!— "and confronted by a decision which she wa<j utterly unfit to undewt^and, yet wMeh must, make the happiness or woe of ail her future life! Inarticulately the simple country-woroan felt that it was not TSgh&,fbr such a child to be confront, cdi 'by soofa, a problem. "Don't you go <for to take the wrong man, Mia Mawlie my dear," »h© pleaded. "There's a many tningis in life which <#n be mended: or ended if they turn out wrong; but there's no getting out of a bad marriage. It's round your neck for ever and aye." . "Oh, Betsy Jane, look— what's that ghost just rising from his grave?" Maudie's laugh, which had begun at the eight of the old servant's solemn face, bubbled, over yet more joyously at sight of a long white-clad figure., in immaculate flannels that at this moment 'slowly elevated itself from, a recumbent /attitudebelow^ a grassy knoll which had hidden it from view. • The resurrecting ghost revealed himb'elf as a. Very tall andi very lean young < man, with a idean shaven face, marked 1 .lrregulai features, a slightly crooked ■nose, a mouth of singular flexibility, ' and a pair of remarkably brilliant hazel eyes which looked out .fTom under a pent-' 1 Itousa brow as square and as strong as— 1 g>and a good deal wider and larger than— aaihe very detained chin. The tall gMjng; man IWfc off his hat ; and Betfey UpHle remarked comfortably : that's just Mr. Vale— he's the I - other paying guest, who won't be in your way, my dear; for he's one of the • idle ones, too. You'll see!" \ With a sago nod of her bonneted head . Betsy Jane walked off with her basket, and left the 'paying guests confronting one another with laughter in their eyes. I thought you were a myth," re- j ■ marked Maudie, as she sought her , swing once more, "Are you never down. to ( breakfast?" ; "Seldom. Are you never ia to lnnoh?" , "Never when I can get milk and bread and, honey from Betsy Jane in the back regions. And now for dinner ! W« , have been three nights here thia time, and, you haven't appeared once!"' , You see it wate like this: the first night I yras too shy. . , ." "I believe that's a— a. . . ." ".Terminological inexactitude is the revised version of the Saxon monosyl- ' • i?_ * L $ lfc , P a ? s at that - The second .night I dined with the Vicar. Yesterday I went fishing with him, ca,me in ?£ wj £ i ned wiih . Bets y Jane in the kitchen— there you have the whole idyl in a nutshell !" ,', t She looked up at him, swaying eentlv. ; wpplmg with girlish mirth and tht sheer < joy of life. "You've been eavesdropping, sir !" Madam, I was here first. I do not happen to be deaf. Sweet, bird-like tones carry well. So soon as the conVersation seemed to be waxing confidential, I arose at great personal sacrifice, for I was vastly comfortable— and revealed myself." "So 3'ou did. Well, I forgive you. Besides, perhaps you know more about some things than Betsy Jane. Can you tell me what an idyl is?" "Dear lady, I will do my best. Suppose yourself old and well seasoned in yeara (if you can), disillusioned, perhaps, and weary of the world, and leaning upon yonder^ gate; and suppose yourself gazing towards this spot where we now stand— only , you happen not to be standing — and seeing there a sweet young maiden, white-robed, blue-eyed, and goldenhaired, swaying { like a bird upon a twig in a rustic swing, and leaning against the hoary trunk a youth of surpassing elegance and attractive < proportions, in earnest confabulation with her : then, drawing a long and heart-broken sigh, you would exclaim, with deep fer- ] ,your of spirit, ' What an idyl V" .Maudie's silvery laugh rang forth clear and ■ true as a' bell ; she lifted archly . merry eyes to her tall companion's fa.cc. " Surpassing elegance and attractive IttOpoitionß !" she repeated, with her' head a little on one side. " Well, "Mr.'

Modesty, ib might do. So an idyl ia when two people talk together. ..." "Two persons of opposite sexes— in fitting surroundings, and with the right kind of topic."' "And what is that?" She i asked the question with mirthful insouciance; but as her eyes met his something unexpected happened. She found herself blushing furiously, and the next moment sha landed upon her feet in the grass and made a dive after a rosy-cheeked apple. "Good thought!" he exclaimed, "let ua make the moat of our opportunities — ■ and learn to know each other too. I have heard such a vast amount concerning you from Betsy Jane that you do not rank as strangers now. You come here every year, do you not?" Maudie nodded, her teeth in the side of her apple. "Yes, at the end of the iummer— as paying guests — after the August and early September ones have gone. We are generally the only ones thenj and its always lovely and hot. But we were' told that a celebrated author would be here this time, only he didn't count much, being quite quiet and harm- i less. I was rather pleased. I wanted to know an author. Most men I know are in the city, and only know about stocks and shares and things like that." "Ah, there you strike the note of difference between idol and idyl," quoth Gerald Vane with a whimsical smile 5 and as she lifted her violet blue eyes to his with _ a roguish gleam in them, he spoke his next question with un wonted energy : "And I suppose.it is One of these city men whom you are going to marry on \ you? nineteenth birthday?" She wrinkled tip her nose in a charming little grimace. "Yes! but I'm not going to live in the city ! I'm going to have a house in the country— with ..." She began enumerating the items by, putting down her fingers one by one^ "A park . . a^ garden . . a conservatory . . tj a carriage . „. two horses to drive and one to ride— Oh, I do love riding and fet so little ! And three dogs : two ig one* outside, and one darling - indoors j and. lovely Persian kittens, and an aviary for my birds. And if I like we can have a farmery, too, with cows and pigs and chickens! And if only Betsy Jane will come and live with me, I shall be as happy as the day is long !" "And what about the husband, may I ask? Where does he come in?" "Oh, he'll be there at breakfast, of course ; and he'll come in in time for dinner, I suppose. He's quite nice and good-tempered, and I dare say I shall like him quite a lot by and by. I don't know him so very well yet. He's always in the city!" Ma.udie demolished her apple with gusto, and flung the core over the hedge. Gerald Vale stood looking down at her with a dawning light of pity aiid wonder in his deep-set eyes. * * ' • * •» Days passed by — golden days of autumn's rich loveliness, which in many ways surpasses the loveliness of late summer, though it lacks the glaraoujj.and the glory of that season at its beginning Y«t to two persons who dreamed away the long sunny hours in orchard and garden, who punted with leisurely enjoyment over the shining expanse of water at the meadows' rim, caught fish, exchanged confidences' and grew strangely and Unconsciously intimate day by day, there was gold and glamour everywhere : exquisite lights in the sunny sky, softest music in copse and garden alley : all the world seemed to have decked itself afresh for their special delectation ; and old Betsy Jane, going to and fro about the place and watching with her shrewd old eyes the juxtaposition of those companion figures, would mutter to herself again and yet again. ''Ay me, but it's an idol he's making of her : and if 1 be not deceived, she of him also. And her promised to a-man old enough to be her father, and knowing no more what marriage means than the babe unborn. It's a shame, I call it, a. cruel shame. Pray heaven as young Mr. Vale may see some way out of it !" And Gerald Vale was thinking hard in these days. It was too late for flight: for love had leaped upon him unawares well-nigh at first sight, and before a week had ended lie knew that he loved this girl with all the strength of his strong, reserved nature ; and that all the manhood within him was crying out against that thing which was 'to be 7-that marriage of an innocent, unknowing girl to one who could never take in her life that central place which was the husband's right and due. But what to do? In converse with the good natuied' elder sister, who combined much of Maudie's frankness with a large fund of worldly wisdom and common-sense, he learned that Matilda had been frankly disappointed at the again and yet again, "Of course I should have been much more suitable for him. I'm nearly ten years older than Maudie. Three boys come between us. I've no romantic notions about life; and I know what it means. Eobert would be happier with me, I'm convinced. But of course, Maudie is bewitchingly pretty. I can't quarrrf with his taste. All the same Gerald Vale soon ranked quite as a fnend of the paying guest family, who seemed almost like the family itself. It was a pleasant enough life led in the old rambling manor house, with gardens and pleasaunces where Couples , could wander at will, and lose themselves in secluded alleys, and only find themselves at such times as tney desired. Catne/a day when Gerald in search of a certain biaght head and pair of welcoming star-like eyes, found a little drooping figure lone upon a ston* pencil in a secluded arbour, ajid saw that the wistful eyes raised beseechingly to his face were bright with the sparkle of tears. Maudie in trouble! Maudie in tears! Would not the very skies fall in sympathy? "Little girl— what in the world is the matter?" That was his name for her : generally it brought smiles and soft blushes, today only a ghost of a watery gleam. "Oh, Gerald, I didn't want you to come. I don't want anybody to-day. Haven't you heard? Robert is coming this afternoon. And* of course, it's— so— very— nice — " Here the voice shook and broke. A quivering laugh, that was caught and rent by a spasm of tears— and the next moment Gerald was on his knees beside her, clasping her two trembling hands fast in his. '-'Maudie ! This can't go on I It's an impossibility I You can never belong to Robert Harkneßs. You know you cannot I" She was shaking and sniveling all over. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss the tears away, and bring the smiles and blushes back; but she wore another man's ring upon her hand; and Gerald did none of these things. But he bpoke very earnestly, and with a gravity which struck a new note in their relationship ope to the other. ' "Maudie, my little girl, whom I loved before I knew it, let me fight this battle for you. Give me your gage ; let me know that it is with your consent ; and

I will go and meet this erstwhile suitor of yours. I will tell him tilings which he ought to know, things concerning me and concerning you. Maudie, will you send me forth to do this thing? And let me come again to tell you how I have fared?" The train'bringing Robert Harkness to his destination steamed in at the station. The thick-set, jjiosperous-looking, bearded man, carrying Ids own bag easily enough, left the station on foot.' He had had his directions. He could walk to the AVhite Lion and get a fly there, and drive out the five miles to the old manor where his lady-love, his little Maudie, awaited him I Usually a very much "all on the spot" personage, and used to the turmoil and perils of the city, it was strange that the man of business should be off his guard to-day. Perhaps he was dreaming of his little love ; or thought that street perils had no place in tho quieter roadways of the country towns. . . . All in, a moment he was in the midst of a strange tumult of sound ; clatter of hoofs, the throb and hoot of a motor,, shouts of excited' men, shrieks of terrified women. Then a strong hand upon his collar, flinging him backwards, so that he stumbled and almost fell. ... He was aware of a moment of immense peril, from which somebody or something had saved him. Men were vociferating and shouting still close by. The man with the horses was vituperating the man with the motor. A smash. A smash of some sort had taken place, and Mr. Harkness knew that he would have been in the thick of the collision but for that strong grip which had pulled him forth in the very nick of time. Panting he turned upon the tall man, with the strong face, and an arm that hung limply. . "My dear sir— -you are hurt ! You saved me at' your own cost. . . " "It is a trifle. The mud-guard, I think, struck me. I shall be all right. I want to get on to the station « . . to meet the down train. . . ." "It's in already. I came in it. . ." "Are you Mr. Robert Harkness?" "I am." In a slow going fly the two men jolted leisurely back towards the old manor, Harkness turning with unwonted impulsiveness upon his rescuer. "But for you, sir, I should have been crushed to a jelly.J I was not looking where I was going. Culpable carelessness — most culpable. And I owe my life to you. If there is anything that I can do for you. . . ." "There is " "Pray inform me of it then." "You can listen to a story I have to tell you. lam a maker of stories :it is my trade. This one might be called an idyll. Will you listen?" Harkness composed himself to do so. Shrewd man that he was. he "caught on" almost at once. He listened to the "idyll" with his face slightly averted, his eyes fixed unseeingly upon the golden autumnal landscape. And Gerald told that story with a skill which perhaps transcended any of those written prosepoems of his which were winning him fame and gold. When he ceased the^ elder man turned his gaze upon the distinctive face of the speaker. "What is your position, sir, if I may ask it? Can you give my little girl the tilings she wants, if I give her up to you?" So he had understood ! And he was carrying matters to their logical conclusion ! This man was no fool — and no pol« troon "I have a fair income independent of my work; and that is worth six or seven hundred a yeai to me — and may bring me more.' I can give the little girl aU that she will ask of me." Silence for a brief while. Then Harkness put out his hand and gripped that of Gerald Vale. "I knew I was a fool all the time. But the child bewitched me. I thought I could make her happy. . . . ." "So perhaps you could — till she — awoke." "Ay, there's the rub ! I knew there was that danger ; but I hoped perhaps that it might not come . . . that there would be ... a baby . . . to make new links and bonds. T'veseen odd marriages turn out well, and romantic idyls lead to hopeless grief and tangle and disgrace " "That's true enough, sir. I've been bold to tell my tale. The rest I leave — she leaves — to>you "" "You mean that she sent you." "I meaji that I found her — in tears. I knew that I could have comforted her ; but I would not. She would not have had it. But I asked leave to go forth upon, this mission " There was a deep silence between the two men. 'It lasted unbroken whilst a mile was traversed. Then Harkness put his hand upon Gerald's shoulder. "It's all right my lad. You can go back to her. Go in and win. I've always had my misgivings." Silence again; Gerald's heart beating its psean of triumph, wonder, and joy. Then Harkness spoke again, and a wry little smile, but a kindly gleam in his honest eyes. "After all, Matilda and I have always been capital friends. It will be much more suitable really. I knew 1 was an old fool all the .while! Why surely there's Mattie waiting yonder at those gates! Is this tht place . , J" "Yes, and I'll get out here. Miss Matilda will take my place. I've got something to do. . . " * * ♦ ♦ » Maudie w.as in the same spot in the dim arbour whdreihe had left her. But she was not in tears now. Yet she was not laughing either. , Enter a tall figure at the end of the walk; a bound up arm, a pale face; but eyes that spoke strange meanings. "Gerald, Gerald, Gerald !" Now he was beside hei. He had her hand in his j and very gently he drew her off a sparkling ring from one fingei. Then he put his arm about her waist, and her head sank upon his shoulder. "Gerald, Gerald— am I really free?" "No, my darling, a thousand times no! You have only exchanged one bondage for another. Maudie, I cannot give you the big country house, the park, the garden, the horses. . "' He could not recapitulate farther because his lips were muted. Neither could be speak for some considerable time. She lay against his shoulder in a rapture of utter contentment. He had told her so little ; and yet she knew all that mattered. "Gerald— is this an idyll?" "It is the only idyl in all the world that matters. It is the only one which ever has mattered from the beginning of creation." She heaved a little sigh of perfect contentment.. After a long time, she phe said, softly: — " Let us go and tell — iJetsy Jane !"