SHORT STORY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLII, Issue 13029, 21 November 1905, Page 3

SHORT STORY.

AUDREY, OF WAIKARE. • "Tea and toast?" she asked. A little, breeze, bringing with it the souiit of the London traffic, came across tin flower boxes and through the open window as she .stood in front of him; her slendei figure outlined against the oak-panelled i walls. Most of the small tables were de sorted, for it was late, and the tea-room" was comparatively empty. , '-'Tea and toast?" she repeated. , "Oh—yes, please. Tea and toast." Evidently the poise of 'the neat, dark head upon the girl's shoulders had some attraction for the young- man, for his eyes had never left her. " • " ■ • '' ' . . '*Oh, I say," he demanded, abruptly, wale >Ug up as she was turning to execute his mm'' wl,y do - vou call m<-"The Lunatic?"*' -lite lain tinge of pink, 'brent into the Pretty pale face. ■■ ; "Are you called The Lunatic?" she parned. :-j -■'..• "As if you'didn't .know. The other day when 1 was here 1. heard thai big fair girl m the kitchen say to you i 'Jf it's the Lunatic he can jolly well wait- for his teacake. Why should 1 jolly well wait. for mv tea-caUe? 1 don't come here to jolly well wait. * - - "I do." she ,-retorted. . "Tea. and toast you said, didn't you?" and she vanished towards the kitchen. Garry Stroud took up an illustrated paper from the chair beside him, and turned over the. leaves. Apparently it was immaterial to him at; what angle! he. read the letterpress, for he held lie 1 pane, upside down, and was intent upon the third column of .the. page before him when the girl returned with tin- tray. lie threw the paper down as she placed the tray upon the table. " Where's the tea-room dog?" he asked. "1 don't think lie's recovered vet," she answered. -*■■•' .. The young- man grinned. "Was he ill. then?" "Three sandwiches and seven pieces. of walnut cake ought to he enough to make any dog ill," she returned. "That all comes of your starving the poor beast: it's disgraceful: he was simply ravenous. 1 couldn't have touched a morsel myself if I hadn't fed him first." •' I. don't, re-member that you did touch a morsel," she commented quickly. "Oh, didn't, I? Well. J got sufficient enjoyment in watching the way that poor, starving apology for a terrier devoured the walnut, cake. Do you know—" But the girl was evidently not disposed lo be. conversational, "Can I get you anything else now':" she asked. "No—l don't think so." Then, as she turned away, he added quickly: "I'm sure I sha'n't like this toast." "You haven't tasted it." "1 know, but I've-taken a dislike to its appearance— l do not like thee. Dr. Fell, yon know. I think I'll leave this for the dog, and have—oh. 1 say, you, might stay and talk to me for about five seconds. Anyone would think you'd got to catch a train.'" " I have," sin? returned! " When you've finished your tea I can go home." Oh, I shan't have finished for a very long time." he responded cheerfully, " l want a sandwich and some cakes after this." " I'll, get them for you." ~ ; "There's not the slightest hurry. '-• I hate to see the table covered with eatables—it makes one look so greedy. Do you mind giving me .another cup of tea? ' There's something wroixr with this teapot; I can't make ii work at all." • The girl bent over the tray, and poured out the tea. .:.'- " ..'■•. ; "There's nothing whatever wrong with tlm teapot." she. said. The childlike innocence of Garry's gaze radiated pleased astonishment. " Now, isn't that extraordinary!" he observed. " I couldn't do anything with it, ami the instant you tone!) ii it's all right. Teapots always seem to me like horses. They'll go well with some people— especially—arid with others they won't go at ail. It all depends on the hands. 'You sec—" But the girl was out of earshot already, and the nc.xt moment had disappeared through the. doorway, which led to the kitchen. Carry turned over the toast on Ins plate discontentedly for a few minutes. Then lie rang Hie little bell mi the table. "I wonder they don't'teach ~you' better manners here," he remarked severely as she reappeared. Don't ..you. know that it's very rude to leave anyone in the middle of a sentence like that?" '"Are you ready for your sandwiches -now?" .-.lie asked. ■ ■• .. ■'■' 'Don't you know—" lie began again, Hut she interrupted him. " I'm here to wait on customers, not to talk to them?" she said. " You're making a great mistake. It's your duty to be pleasant to customers. ' I asked you a question just now—a perfectlycivil question—and 1 mean to have ini answer. Why do you call me The Lunatic?" The girl turned with a little exasperated movement and faced him. "' Do you think you've been behaving sanely for the last- few weeks?" she demanded. " You come here every day, order and pay for all sorts of things' which you never attempt to eat.'" ■ The girl laughed mirthlessly, and a sudden fury against the late which decreed that she .should have to work to earn her living us a waitress/ in a fashionable London tearoom swept over Stroud. / Save for the girl. Garry was by this tine sola occupant of the room. The evening shadows were creeping through the quai/'W latticed windows, and the grandfather .clock in the opposite corner struck seven/a/ the cakes were placed before him. The .id was moving again when Oarrv called air back. // • "Better stay here," he suggested v'/' I shall want something else in a minute, 'Besides, I've brought something in to/show you. It's a photograph—a snapshot token in the New Zealand 'bush." ". // Fumbling in his pocket he procured a letter-ease., from which he racier!''.'/ small unmounted photograph. He hamfd it to till- girl, and she gazed at it in siWee. In the centre of the pictur/ /leaning against the giant trunk of a when tree, with tree-ferns forming an arch/'alync her head, was the figure of a tall, t&ider girl, dressed in while. (J "Pretty girl, isn't she?" ask*? Garry, us the girl handed (lie photoeraph//ick to him. "Do you thin!; so?" Her \i£o betrayed no interest. '•;//■ " Yes, I think her quit© h> prettiest girl I ever met. .She gave n« half-a-crown once." ' • j ''Really!" i! " I'm l got it here." Tie pji'lled out a chain from his pocket with a Mferal coin attached lo it. She was I.V'oing house for her brother at VVaikan tVni was the port of ilangatira. a little gold/lining settlement in New Zealand. Tien',-Mere just "-'-'out six houses and a wharf at Atiikare-oh, ami a sort of toy railway liue-w ! " Knngniira. I was working on - a bipc'/>;f-driving dam up in the bush: they vvow/d limber as well as gold at ttangatira. jj "Ol course, yon'vV never seen a log drive. The logs are liftiled by bullocks from the bush, pushed in// the water behind the dam, then the pate' are opened, and down go the log- to the W. Well, this girl—her name was Audrey winl'tonand a party of Auckland friends \"lto were staying with her, came-up one davfe see the log drive. We got them lea in iff hut. J. suppose in those lays I looked \\]ffi I was —pretty hard up so she gave me li'.lfa-erown. She did it so sweetly.' too- so" ' "Rather a t#less thing to do, wasn't, it? 1 don't want hurry you, but if you could manage to lt'ono have the teathir'igs." Garry ' loolf/i extremely hurt. "'J was just gettingVo I lie interesting part of my story." he $ff. l.'leaso ffi'i think me rude." she answered; " jwr it would interest me much mo re J l Jt/ld get- home." You'rd/iot very sympathetic about the romance d'/my life." '"M. dou?/see any reason why 1 should be," replied tW girl coldly. " Oh, /bn't you!" said Stroud, briskly; "wait 1/1/ 1 get to the part where I fell in Icvo.wi/I; her." " Wwe you what?" " WjSffl-e J. fell in love with her." repeated Garry//;oo!ly. "It was one night when I was (Pining down the railway line from the rang/s/on a, jigger. A jigger's a little trolley diltir that you put on the railway line and work with a handle. You see, we had no reads in Waikare. only the bush and the" U?ach and the wharf, where the little slcaacr from Auckland unloaded coal and stf/rdi once a week. .. Usually, when you wprJ travelling on a jigger and met "the. tr'aij 1 it pulled up obligingly, and you disi.loi/nfed and lifted your jigger off 'the line ■— tjfen the train went on. However, on •hi/ particular night I met the train rather sin/denly round a corner, ami T didn't need jtoilift my jigger oil' the line—the train did tli/it for me. J never knew that little train hid so much strength. The jigger and I were lather crumpled up beside' the line, when up came the engine-driver and the one passenger- -" ... ".-.. ; "I know it's very romantic," interrupted the girl suddenly—" but I'm really in a hurry." " - " "One moment. This is the interesting parr. .Who do you think the passenger was? It was Audrey going up to meet her brother it the mines. . She" was travelling in state that night with Mrs. McCahoy—Mrs. Mc-

Cahey was the postmistress, you know. It was she who had to read the Proclamation of the King's Accession to the.Throne. I'll never forget Mrs. McCahey'a dignity on that occasion. The entire population of Waiikare —seventeen, counting tho children and the two Maoris—were gathered round a sack of potatoes, from the summit of which Mrs. McCahey— t •' ~_■':•"..W hat on earth has this got to do with ■it?" The girl was laughing half hysterically. . i .- "That's just by way of introducing Mrs. McCahey. She'd lent Audrey her private truck on this occasion, as Audrey was leaving Waikare for good next day." Mrs. MbCahey's truck—the only one on tho line possessing, a seat—was usually known as the: ice-cream cart on account of its beautifullypainted ■ pink-and-white exterior. Well,? Audrey-descended from this magnificent conveyance and came along the line to where I washing with the jigger; found out I'd got. a dislocated shoulder and a broken leg;- : helped to put me into the ice-cream cart, and ordered the train back to Waikare. All that jolting ten miles down to Waikare she held me. in her arms; then she got me carried up to her brother's house. Her brother < was staying. at, the mines that night, arid; there was no chance of getting a doctor till the morning, but that girl—she know something about First Aid—and she patched mo - up a bit. All night long she sat'alone bo". side me. When the pain got very bad sin' put her two arms round me and held nn up to ease it. Once—l'm afraid I'd fojf gotten everything except my sinashed-w self, and was swearing pretty heavilysle put a wet cheek down against mine aid whisperer), just a little sobbing sort of whsper, "I know it's awful, but try to heart, dear." ' . I Next day the doctor came, and Audrey Ift Waikare for London. Her brother—he dfi<l two years ago and she's all alone in (he. world now—told me she wanted to stay ind ' nurse me, but he thought it better for her to go. Still, I had the memory of thafcpn'o night left with me— the night —fell in love with her." With a sudden movetneri he caught the wrist of the girl beside inira, "Audrey." he said, "you haven't forgittcn, have you'.'" j But "the, girl wrenched her hand ,away from him and faced him with flaming eyes. " How dare yon she said. " Oh, "low 1 hate .von!" And without another we'd she , ■left him. / Ten minutes later a girl, thicklv veiled, stumbling blindly into Piccadilly, ali/ost fell over Carry as he waited at the -tearoom door. She turned to escape him;- but. he had her firmly by the arm, and wa) guiding her across the pavement. ;.' . ; _ "Not that way." he said. "Got/in here." .< The door of an electric brougham .opened in ' i front of her. Before she fully revised what, .1 was happening the girl was in thebroughanr' ) with Garry beside her. / / i "Oh, how dare you!" she gisped agai/i. "Let me get out." But the far was ,al- i ready threading its way swiftly and no/so- 1 lessly through the Piccadilly tiiflie towards ( the Parle. ' ' V '. ./ J " You can't get out," said Carry quietly. ' His face showed rather whit in the twi- 1 light. "And you're not goirft to un/il you ' tell mo what you meant jut now/in the < tearoom." * / / „

The girl threw back her feil. "a meant what I said," she answered. "J tyitc you— , 1 despise you—" ■: / / "And lor what reason/ or h/ven't you any reason?" / / "What right had you if talk /ike that to • me this afternoon?"—hertoice making with suppressed passion. '".Hfiv darjfd you make j me listen—pretending lot tit- know me?- . You've known me froii the/first day you I came into the tearoom.six wi.eks ago." . "Yes, from the very first/moment 1 saw ' you again. Well?" ; / ! " And it was a goof jokifl for you. a rich j man, to exercise yoir wii-' on a girl who . wasn't in a positioujto r/fient it—who had to put up with all yrti sjM.l— listen while you recalled those Jays' in New Zealand. Oh, wasn't, it exquifitel? funny to try and make her believe flat m two chance meetings three years ag< you'd fallen desperately in love with her." /' "Audrey!" He c/iight her hand in a painful grip and pujled her round to face him. His bread /as coming short and heavily. , " Do ym/know what you're saying?" " .' ! / She laughed / I/Wo wildly. " Oh, yes, l know well enoigii.' And did you share-the joke with the,jirl/ypu're going to marry?", "The girl'lhi going to marry!" Yes. I's/pyose it didn't occur to you that 1 mighthf..ve seen your cnagement in the'M.'oniiiigl'/>st a lnbnth'ag'o?" "No, 1 cerftifi'lv that hadn't occurred to ..me." Garr' T>'as gazing at her with a curi- ■ ously lilauj expression. ; .' A marhtgc has been ■ arranged between Captain Te/ey Lang and the Hon. Kathleen Moijkton." A Ugh 'Hashed into Garry's bewildered eyes.*' / / , . ; - "AiH.'you think I'm Yesey Lang?" J kfofy it. The first day you came into the ioimxn one "of the girls told me your name... J;d never known it in New Zealand." f '""'"." Gary threw back his head, and .-laughed alouf. I ;'iV)r old Yesey," he said; "he wouldn't feelfUttercd; Why, he's no end of a swell i?,/and I'm nobody. I was at school with , hadn't seen him for years before that df.fl- met him in Piccadilly and we came iiio the tearoom." ~"/.'.-■ ; : The girl looked at him doubtfully. "You ny Captain Lang, ' she asserted. //' I've- always^been-led : believe," he retailed politely, "that" my name was Garry -Garibaldi Stroud, to confess the, I flatter in all its horrid completeness." ■ / "Are you telling me'the truth?" asked Audrey after a pause. ■•Certainly! What on earth would Lang be doing at Waikare?"-"' ■ ".Well, we had a duke's son working on the coal-hopper at the wharf once. I don't see why Captain Lang shouldn't wr*rk at the dam. Oh, why have you talked about 1 New Zealand like that to-day? you'vemade me so homesick. Mrs. McCahey on the sack of potatoes reading, the Proclamation " .She began to laugh, and the next minute, to her own infinite surprise, found that she was crying instead. " Ob, I'm so homesick and lonely !".she sobbed. Suddenly Stroud turned, and, gathering her up in his arms, held her close to him. "Shall we golnek?" he whispe-»d. "Ruling on a jigger down the ranges in a b'uslifire sunset is better fun than tooling round the park. Audrey, say you'll marry me. Say if, dear." Audrey, with her face , pressed down against his shoulder, still sobbed wildly on. It- is to be presumed, however, that she did eventually say it, for five weeks later, with her husband, Garry Stroud, sho sailed for New Zealand.

Rosemary Rees, in M.A.P.