THE HAVEN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLVI, Issue 14109, 10 July 1909, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE HAVEN.

[PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]

BY EDEN riIiLLPOTTS,

Author of " Sons of the Morning:." "Children of the Mist," "The Whirlwind." "The Secret Woman." "The Mother," etc.. etc.

[COPYRIGHT.] CHAPTER XVll.—(Continued.) "And that they will do sooner or late. You can't defy a whole country eiae. The watch committee knows all about you, Samuel. There'll be a terrible ugly day of reckoning. And that brings me back to Emma Michelmore. 'Tis doubtful, after all, whether you'd be the best t~> have a tell with her."

"I've promised ; and you've promised to tan the sails. I'll go up next time the old man's to sea. I've long wanted an excuse to tackle her,' and I may do some good for myself as well as you. And Lyddy shall come too. She've often hinted at going over to see her aunt, because she never thought Mrs. Michelmore would keep away ;. so we'll go together, and I'll-put in a good stroke for you and tell her what a -—— old fool she is to keep such a man as you hanging about. ': j " Be careful,*' said Titus "and before all else, don't use language. At an impatient momentmore shame to me—l rapped out an oath in her company. Last winter 'twas, and I thought I'd lost her for good and all. 'Tis along of living with her brother, whose conversation is no more than 'yea 7 and 'nay' in the Bible phrase." i

" And what he says he sticks to," added Samuel. " I grant, but hard as the nether millstone 100. Not a hand lifted all these months. Not a word or a message, though he knows ho may be a, grandfather any minute." , - * : .i' :,./-. ;. > " 'Tis you, not your wife. He's spoken and won't draw back. The remedy's in your hands." Sam's blue eyes grew sulky. "We'll seer—we'll see," he answered. " I'll wear him down yet., And I'll go my own way also.". _, , "Well, use your best wits on my behalf, and you won't hurt yourself, anyway," concluded his uncle. "If . I gather that woman and make her into Mrs. Peach, there'll be another on our side- against your, father-in-law. In fact, he'll stand alone. And now you'd best to come and look at my ochre "and* choose * your colour afore the daylight's faded out." ,- Twilight was at hand, and gentle: easterly breezes roamed under a red sky, toyed with the smoke from i many hearths, and spread it in a blue veil over ; the outlines of the houses. Tender dusk was down, and lights already, twinkled through the waning light. Above the barking yard ascended Overgang, clustered close, lifting to points, threaded by steep stairways like some ancient rock village on a southern hill. '» ■ : ■■ ' ;.

Samuel chose a genial auburn ton© for hi 3 canvas; the colour of' the dead brake fern.; " I've painted the town red in my young days," he declared, " and why for shouldn't I paint my sails red now?. 'Tie a very good shade for a night" hawk's wings,'anyway. And you remember, Uncle Titus, that if you want to do the same that I done, and take your widow by force, and carry her off out of reach of her righteous brother, my boat's always at your sen-ice."

" 'Tie the very last thing that I'd be wishful to do," said Mr. Peach. " She's not the sort of woman ever to be thought of in such a lawless way. When you get to hsr ear, remember her bent of mind, and remind her of the man I am and the views I hold. And touch on the house and garden and the comforts of having your own well of' water, and the easy steps up to the station. ~ These things all carry great weight with her, naturally, and I've dwelt on 'em many and many a. time. But she's prone to forget them again, 60 soon as I'm out of sight." > ■ ■' "I'll rub it all in, I promise you. And now you'd best to come, up and have a cup of tea with us. Lyddy said that I must be sure and make you." . ' \ ; ., -.-..'/

Mr. Peach was very fond of his niece and he never refused her invitations.;

■ "Nothing will please me better," he said. ."Your wife be one in a thousand, and little enough you're worthy of such a clever creature." "•■.'-" • Then Titus stopped work for the day, emerged from his .greasy and ochreus tarpaulins, and presently climbed ; beside Samuel to Mr. Brokenshires lofty dwelling. ' i - -.:■ ■;,- • '. CHAPTER XVIII. On a day in July there came a holiday for Ned, and he spent it to splendid purpose at Berry Farm and Berry Cliffs. He and Deborah roamed through many familiar haunts, and at last, when noon was far past and they had eaten their meal of bread and cheese and cake, they sat together high up on broken ground west of the Head. Beneath there fell a steep footpath to the sea, and here there toiled an old man, who came and went with a wheelbarrow. He brought up seaweed from the olive-green and umber masses ranged by the tide along grey beaches below, and he piled the treasure at a point three parts up the cliff. Hither a horse and cart would presently 1 come and remove the weed to the land above.. .- "'>'-'.% ■■ , ':'-■,

" Sit here on the green side and tell a bit, Deb," said the boy. " What a brave sight 'tis to watch old Warner fetching up that seaweed." "Father thinks that 'tis the only excuse for the sea—to help fat the land. Yet our Tom's happy enough upon it. Such a sailor he is now ! You .can spot him; for a fisherman a mile off; and he rolls in his going as if he's always got a slanting deck under his feet. 'Why, you'm more of a sea-dog than Brokenshire himself ■' father said to him last time he was ashore. He's learning his business very fast." ".Does Samuel take him out by n%ht??' asked Ned. : - ~ ■■;.,' ' , •■<■.■■:■

"No; father won't suffer that, though Tom's always praying for it. : But Mr. Brokenshire don't really want my brother in his boat. " 'Tis too ? small a' vessel to need a boy. And he declares he can't do with Tom when he's at night fishing.": Ned said nothing. He knew . the illrepute of his brother-in-law; but it was none of his business, and he never , spoke of it or listened to others when they did so. Indeed, the matter concerned his thoughts even less than usual to-day. f'i He had risen that morning full of enterprise, and his purpose argued no small precocity for a boy. But he stood, firm, and now prepared to approach his task. * A sort of 'fear drove him to it, as ; he presently explained. ' ; The ' place i where they : sat was lonely and close : hidden.;' Days of ; heat 1 ; began to scorch the sea-facing cliffs and wither-

r: f ■ V<\ ~ ... , •■ : ; \ ' the small creatures that found roothold in them. They seemed to gasp and shrivel and make haste to set their little seeds before perishing. Below broke the ripple of a still sea, and the limestone' cliffs shed off ■■■' a V milky opalescence i into % the pure green 7water. Where'; Ned '■ and "'< the girl sat the slope was coated with;; close herbage and trefoils, starred with. pink centaury, danced over by shaking grasses and the frail loveliness of catharctic flax. Within reach of Ned's hand a

rare and lovely flower opened its golden eye amid snow-white petals. The cushion of it was a grey green, and it dwelt tucked into a cleft of the limestone.:

He twisted the white rock-rose about until the petals had fallen, and only the golden eye of it remained. Then he flung it from him. A grasshopper made husky music hard by; bees droned at their sweet business ; insects flashed and gleamed hither and thither butterflies opened and shut their wings on the sunny stones and. blossoms of the bramble.

Ned was alert for a long time; then he began to approach his subject in a devious way. "Yer see, Deb, you mustn't think because I'm a fisherman now that I shall

always be one. I know you feel the same as me, but when you think upon it, you must remember 'tis all only a passing thing. Though I'm to sea all my time, I don't belong to it, and I shall break off from it presently." \ "No need to tell me that, Ned." : "Yes, but there is. You'll know why in a moment. Of course, for father's sake, things must go on as they're going yet awhile. He doesn't know the truth about it, and I don't mean him to, for if he did, he'd feel terrible sad and cast

down. 'Tis his great want in life for all Majors to be fishermen. I can't see why they should myself, but they have been for countless- years, so father says, and I'm the last of the breed; and so I'll stick to it yet awhile for father's sake. And I'd rather bite my tongue out than let him know how I feel about it. When

first I went to sea I couldn't help showing it a bit; but I hide it now very clever." . '■.;

"From everybody but me,.Ned." "That's it, Deborah. 'Tis that I'm coming to. I began to get afraid: as you'd think with the rest, and suppose the sea was all I - wanted. And then what would you have felt?" She looked up at him from under the blue sun bonnet that she always wore. She crossed and re-crossed her feet ". in their small shoes. !

" Twasn't for me to feel about it. j At least—" ■ ' . ■• • .

" But you did feel— 'twas only to feel sorrow for me—a —eh, Deb ?" "Of course ■I « did. '~ Fd \ feel sorry for anybody forced for to lead a life that was all against the collar. I felt sorry enough for Tom when I used to see him plodding the fields with his eyes and his thoughts on the water." ; • - ' " But more for memore for me. Say more for me, Deb !''

- "Yes—more for you." , ." .The boy answered nothing, and neither spoke for a little while. The dawn of mighty things fluttered in their hearts, but so gradual had been that :■ day-spring, so slowly had it risen out of their united childhood, that neither yet wholly realised it. Ned- now spoke great words— •■[:.. yet half that they meant and the height and depth and fulness of them were hidden from him, for he was still a boy. 1 ; . Deb," he began presently, "you and me' are sixteen year old. And you be a child still, as maidens \ should be so young •; = as that; but: with metis very different. •',■.■> I've come to wbe a- man—full ; growed.; • Yes, 'tis solemn - truth.. ,< :■ The; sea have ..■;• done that; for me, whatever else it may: have done. •■ And ■: now—; I'm filled. with wonderful , thoughts that work in me like barm in dough you'm ; in ; the midst of them, Deb. * Oh, Deb, darling, ! I'think of nobody else but yon!" ■"•.,■■'■'■-;; • ; Sho'.«hivered-strangely and blinked— gave half -a look, at . him— and- alarm' mingled.! But shea, said . nothing; 'only locked/ her little '< brown ; hands*"-tight in;' .her lap. in; .s>yiw ....-.,.:■ ■"•j, l[; ; s v -. ; ;V ■ "And I've got :in 'a terrible fright,; • Deb; and -'tis fright making" me / say ; what I'm saying. 5 I—you see; you're ashore and I'm afloat, and God, He knows how many people f see you cwhen I'm away; and it's got to be a dread and '■!terror-; with me each time I sail out o' sight of A land that somebodybetter, of - course,,, than ; me, and wiser, and i well-to-do, ■ and a landsman—in fact— you see—-how the fear of hearing' you'm gone—? That's why I say these things, though 'tis too soon for you to hear 'em. Yet I'll swear some other chap;i cleverer than me will come along and say 'em in a minute, better than I can; and then ■ I shall get back from a voyage and hear that you— you are walking out with ' somebody, Deb. 'Twould J be the last straw for my life. I couldn't stand it, Deb."

He : stopped, and she spoke with a" small voice that fluttered. . ;V

■ "Oh, Ned, '.'. how wonderful-—how .wonderful to hear you speak like ; a grownman

; "That's it," he said. "-That's what I can't do, though I wish to God I. could; for I'll never want to speak like one more than now. 'Tis man's love, Deborah. I ban't too young to feel that. -I love you ; —ban't nonsense and trash —I ; swear 'tis';-;': faithful, true ' love—else what can it; be?;; : The very name of you be a light to my ■ dark nights. I say >it under my breath to ; myself when I'm watching. • I say it when % ,the bolts cry : out :or thei boom creaksl.;-: say it out loud: then, t because the sound's ; hidden from all ears but ; mine. Vf. I love '£; you, Deb;' I, swear it can't} be, nothing S else— voice and our li'le grey [ eyes and ir your mouth. ;- Specially ; your mouth. And you kissed me once—remember thatand p I've never "forgot ':; it all these \ years . and '{;■ years, if you have. ' Don'tdon't forV God's sake, take (a ; grown man when I'm away.; to sea, Deb. .Don't do that till we'm grown a bit ourselves, and you'm.': wife old. ; And I'll -soon be old enough to; set up a home for you and all that. , 'Tis all nothing to me beside you > but f tis part of being married, I see. Only don't let somebody older than me do it; for 7 you ;; don't let a man come and take you while I'm to sea. .'.•'■ I * couldn't bear it, Deb; I should kill him." '■"■<■■:

He prated of manly emotions, but did not dream how much older the girl'was than himself, or how she ; glowed i ; to her little heart's heart before this - worship. She gasped; she looked up at i the sun. Life had put a crown of joy suddenly upon her young head. Every word; that he faltered was beautiful to her; -his humility, his fear, his promises; the name of her spoken at sea by night while ; she slept. How much she had to tell him, too! But she could not begin in a moment. : She knew not where to begin; and where was her voice ? She was quite .silent. To her it seemed that if he only looked and listened everything around about would answer for her. The , bees made mellow music and voiced her; the gulls cried out her happiness in their laughter; the grasshoppers chirruped it; the waves danced' and flashed it. Heaven spread above her, and the great westering light aloft was not too large to tell of her delight. , She yearned to touch his hand. Her love tingled; in her little veins her voice throbbed with pride.

. Ned To think— a small, poor thing as me! No—'tis because you're not a man at all yet, though you think you are—and yet right well I know you're very nearly a man. Oh, Ned, how beautiful '." "'Tis proper grown up love, Deborah." " " For ever and ever, and ever I'll love you, you blessed Ned !" " You can Truth And can wait till I get away from the sea?" '' Sea or land—what's that to me? I love you—and long, long I've loved you! And I'll wait for ever for you, Ned."

Now she was more fervent far than the boy, for her sixteen years meant more than his. She woke 1 him a little, and at last he kissed her— a cherub, not as a. ■ lover kisses. But her ardour was as thought earthier. She held him tight, and fired him with the pressure of her slim figure till the world spun round merrily'for them. She would not let him -go; she made him hold his arm round her; he felt her cheek pressed up to his.' He grew almost dazed ;■? and ■-' drunken with this mighty experience, and she said, again and again, that 'twas only his arm. round her and his cheek against hers that mad© her understand what had happened. .■ • CTo be continued daily). ?