HEATHER OF THE SOUTH.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXII, Issue 18949, 21 February 1925, Page 5 (Supplement)

HEATHER OF THE SOUTH.

by rosemary rees. Author of " April's Sow ins."

(Copyright.) CHAPTER XXII. Paul, still unable to realise quite what had happened, watched Lois turn and saunter back through the sunset light toward him. She was, as ever, unruffled and apparently at ease, but Paul, knowing that beloved face, so well, read in the heightened colour, and in the dark softness of her eyes, some message of emotion. " Why haven't you gone with Creed:" lie asked as she came up to him. •'lshe responded innocently. " Why should I'■ I'm going to cook for you. I tnav not be a very good cook, hut I've been taking lessons from Mrs. Turner, and we've all sorts of good things in the larder that, don't, require cooking, so you won't starve." He sat down in one of the canvas chairs, and covered his face with his hands. " Lois," he «aid huskily. " T can't stand your pity. I'd rather you'd leave me — here- -alone." She knelt then beside him, and put one hand on his shoulder. " We've been playing at cross-purposes. Paul my dear, she said gently. " l os leit me to myself and 1 was like a rudderless ship, drilling with every current, I very nearly drifted in shipwreck, but not quite. And I hadn't the faintest idea you really eared, until that evening, at Wake,war. Vou couldn't deceive me again alter that. He put aside her hand, and crossed to the widely opened panel, and stood looking over the valley, where far away the last rays of the sun, setting in the hills behind them, could still be seen. » There's the risk of infection for you," he said steadily. " There's very little fear of thai. I've talked it. over with Doctor Bland, lie says I run scarcely any risk, and after all its Diy life to risk 1 told myself my love for you was dead—it- wasn't. My pride wouldn't let rue acknowledge an affection for a- man who seemed indifferent to me, that's ail." Paul, looking down over the valley, had never moved, and after a mouieiu. Lois Vl , n > on. Do you remember what you said 10 me at Wakawai: when you spoke of my flirtation—yes, it was just a paltry, vulgar flirtation, and nothing else, you said, ' it cheapens you abominably, and it sickens me.' And you were right—it is cheapening. cheapening and degenerating to one s moral fibre. And that's what you'd send me back (o - that and worse. T\o, I aul dear. I won't go. Not unless you tell me on vour word oi honour., that you don t Jove me—that my presence bores you—and that you'd rather be alone.' " Lois!" He turned and looked at her, and in that one word and in his eyes, she read her answer. After Crailley had been called to Australia by urgent business, and the Gillespies had left Wairiri by the same steamer, for some destination unknown, Stephen Creed called upon the, president of the Racing Club. It was a very simple matter to set Pom light in the eyes of the world. After a meeting- of the Stewards, the disqualification would be removed iroiu lom I>urnside's name. A paragraph or two in the Press, and perhaps a half-hearted attempt to charge Crailley, Samuels, and Gillespie with conspiracy—nothing n iore. Samuels had left New Zealand the previous year: Crailley and the Gillespies would be difficult to trace; and the Racing Club would gain very little by any prosecution; so that nothing more would in all likelihood bo heard of the matter. Probably when things had blown over, Crailley would return to Wairiri, and continue to flourish, like the green bar tree. Creed reflected, a little bitterly, that no one but the boy, his own people, and his intimate friends, .wonld ever realise how great a tragedy the whole, affair might have been. The boy's life absolutely ruinp.d and thrown away, and his mother's heart broken. As it was this last eventuality was at least averted. Torn was returning to Wairiri by {ho first steamer from the South, and Mrs. Burnside knew that she would have him with her toon at Weka Flat. Stephen Creed bad not. seen r i om's mother since the day when she had asked him to forgive her; the. day he had gone to Wakawai to see for himself in what relation Heather stood to Billy "Winter. But he had written a little note to Mrs. j Burnside tolling her of' all that had happened, and announcing Turn's expected arrival; though this information, he ielt, would probably be superfluous for he believed that young Burnside himself bad written to bis mother. Creed had arranged to mod the Xoufhfrn steamer, and to motor Tom with his baggage—which Stephen knew only too vf-H would be pitifully little—hack to j Weka, Flat. Standing ou I Ins v.haii. waiting for j the steamer. Creed's thoughts nent back to the day of the Merrick Stroud's arrival. How queer that his heart should have • pnekeiied ui its beat- at the Sight of Lois! I! had been an affair of Ihe imagination, that—nothing real—and he kw;w that Lois was right when she. said that had t.hev carried the affair further, they would have hated one another in MS months. There was no woman he respected more, liked more, or found more charming and entertaining than Las: but he did not, love her. He did not want to protect her, to care for her. to have her companionship always, to lavish on her that, passionate tenderness of which she had once spot;en. *' Iro old along with me, 'I he is yet to be The last of 'life, for which the first was made." ■That expressed the best sort of love between man ami woman; not merely the evanescent glamour ot attraction. There was Tom now at the deck tad. .Stephen waved to him. and live minutes later Tom had joined him on the wharf. Tli' nee. arrival carried a shabby suitcase containing the sum total oi his worldly possessions- -and these Ix'ilight with money Stephen ('reed had given him. Bat In had saved a little during the jew weeks hi the South, and during the drive, out to Weka Flat, he somewhat gruffly, muttered something about "A little on account," and produced a, ten pound note which lm awkwardly pushed in Stephen's direction. l 'fi doesn't matter vet you know," remarked the latter, "any time will do," _ "I want to get il off my mind," said 1 om; and so Freed accented it. iVeling glad it had been offered. For he knew from tlm, ami also from Tom's clearer eyes, and general appearance of better health, that, he had indeed picked liim- *<'!£ up again; and the. older man was conscious of a conviction that Tom in future would "go straight." They had not waited for breakfast in town. "I had a cup of tea, and a biscuit. on board, and if you don't mind going out right away, I'd rather get- • » , . home," said Tom and Stephen was only too willing to comply with Tom's request. Creed wanted to finish up the whole business. To keep his word, to restore Join to his own people, and then back to Maranui and plunge into work and forget the Burnside; altogether « » . .

and forget Billy Winter! The latter he hadn t seen or heard of for the last week or two. Well,! he didn't want to see or hear of him! If he never saw him again, he—Creed would not grieve unduly. They reached the gate of Weka Flat. "The place hasn't gone back has it?" asked Tom, as they drove up the paddocks towards the, house. "I don't, think so," answered Creed, our sister's managed wonderfully." He did not add, "Ami Billy Winter has helped her enormously;" though that would have been nothing less than the truth. Wall, Winter was getting what he d worked for---the girl he wanted. That, was all right! Quite satisfactory-, and just as it should be! "Wool s going up—the last sales were the best so far for years. The slump's over, and this country's in for a period of prosperity." .said ("'reed. 'lom nodded. He was paying very little attention to what the other said. Creed knew instinctively that ho was nervous, and dreading the embarrassment ot any emotional greeting from his own people. But ho need not have been afraid. Mrs. Burnside was at the gate, and Heather was nowhere to be seen. The older woman, hatless, and with her hand shading her eyes from the glare of the morning sun—and perhaps shading them for another reason as well walked up to her boy. and kissed him as lie got down from the car. "Will you conic in, Mr. Creed':" she asked. "No thanks," answered ("reed, somewhat hurried Iv. "I must be. getting back." lb l turned the car, and drove oil; and the last picture he saw was of the mother and sou—he carrying that pitifully, shabby, little suit-case—entering the garden gate together. After a. hasty break fast, at Maranui. freed set out to the the Valley yards to see Sandy McAlister who was there busy, dipping. But after some hours with the sheep, he decided to ride up to the camp. Lois and Paul would give him some lunch, he knew. As he rode towards the little hut, he met them, both swinging towels, coming up from a swim in the river. Tlicy looked like two children out for a holt day in the country. Paul was certainly improving in health, " day by day, and in every way," and happiness seemed to radiate from them both. They were almost too blatantly happy. Creed felt aggrievedly. He was conscious of something that was very nearly a small stirring of resentment in regarding them. " We've most delicious cold chicken for luncheon. We ate the best part, of its stable mate for breakfast," announced Lois. " Vour Mrs. Trimble sends us over the most beautifully cooked tilings. I almost wish she. wouldn't. 1 haven't had a chance yet of showing Paul how clever 1 am." "Don't. discourage Mrs. Trimble, Stephen," begged Paul. " I'd rather take Lois' cleverness for granted." "Paul! Didn't I make you Irish stew one day " Yon did my dear. A trifle greasy, wasn't, it?" " Rich, not greasy. Irish stow must always be rich, out of difference to Ire land. But 'stew' is such a nasty name 1 always think." " And such a nasty thing," agreed Paul. "At least, that was." They both laughed, and as lunch progressed Stephen found they laughed at many things. Very little seemed to amuse them a modicum of wit sufficed. They even found something in the eminently prosaic task of washing-up: and when this was finished and Lois stretched out lazily in one of the deck chairs in the shade, enjoying a cigarette, Stephen decided to leave them. He had no illusions as to their reception of him. They were quite pleased to see him, l>ut not unduly grieved to sec bun go. In fact, as an eutitv, be was a negligible quantity to them" both. They themselves constituted a world of their own, which apparently made them serenely oblivious of the world without. Stephen reached the Maranui homestead in anything but a happy frame of mind. He had tried work with the sheep, and he had tried visiting friends, and neither work, nor friendship had proved of much help to him in easing the restlessness of his mind. To-morrow he would begin to work in earnest ; interest himself in the progress of station affairs; and in hard physical labour, forget his mental disharmony. He rode round by the stables, let his horse go and then made his way into his own wing of the bouse. The big room, with its dark wood panelling, its pictures, its deej) comfortable chairs, its wide French whitlows, opening out on to the verandah, and framing a vista of the sun-shine-flooded, and flower-filled garden, looked cool and inviting. Out on the tennis lawn, Trimble, was mowing the grass, and the mowing and the locusts droned drowsily in chorus. Creed took up a weekly paper from the table, ami flung himself down in one or" the chairs to read: but after half an hour, having failed to whip up any interest, in the racing news, or the farming news, he rose and moved over to the open French windows. Just as be. did so, someone rode up the gravel drive to the, front of the house, and he saw that it. was Heather Burnside mounted on old Bumble, Hatless he passed out. into the sunshine to meet, her. She was no longer the passionate little antagonist he had learnt, to know, but the girl he had first, seen that day in the old spring cart -vet with a subtle difference. The blue which had looked down into his then with a gav friendlitiess, held now some oilier quality, sweeter and deeper. " Mother wants to know if y..u v ill have, dinner it, wont, really be quite din tier- -it II be tea- at Weka I'kit to night, Mr. Creed,'' she said. " Here s a, note from her. han wants to talk things over with yon, ami Jic'd be glad if you could come." And would you be glad li I came': asked Creed, looking up at her. Her colour deepened a, little, but. she answered simply, " Vet i should, he glad too." "Then will you get off, ami come in and have, afternoon tea with me now ? j I'm feeling at a loose end, and it. would be a charity to stay and talk to me for a little while," She hesitated for a moment, and then said, " Very well." " I'll call Trimble to take your horse." He. lifted up his voice and shouted to the man, who left bis mowing, and came to wards therm "Take, Miss Burnside'.., horse to the stable and give him a, teed, and then tell Mrs. Trimble to bring us some tea into my room." 11. was the first time she had been at Maranui, and the big, ban home, yet homelike room, gave her a seme of luxury after tin* bareness and smaUncss oi Weka Flat. Her eyes lighted first on the piano. "Oh! You've a Broadwood," she. exclaimed. "It hiiks a licaui y. Do you i play "I strum a little—-a very I i 111 < —bi it 1 can appreciate good music." " May I try it she asked. " !'»ly fingers itch to get at. a goon piano directly I see it." "Do," answered ( reed, and pulling off her gloves, she, sat flown at the. instrument. On the sf illness, and languorous heat of tlio afternoon, fell the first, sweet notes of Chopin's Nocturne in F. Minor. Again Creed was the lit tie, boy sitting quietly in the garden, while his mot tier played. He was suddenly conscious of a, quecrly poignant, desire that she- his mother —could hear Chopin's music played now by bis girl~ could see the bobbed black hair, the vividly beautiful little face, and the slender figure in riding clothes, seated at the piano. Heather stopped after sho bad played a few bars. "It has a lovely tone," she said. "Won't, vou go on?" asked Creed. " That's my favourite Nocturne. My mother used to play it," The girl obediently played on, and when she had finished, rose, from the piano. " Are you thinking of going bat k to Paris now that Tom. is home?" Directly

Stephen had put the question, ho knew it was a foolish one. If she was to marry Winter, she wouldn't bo likely to be trotting off to Europe I She shook her head. " I've given up all idea, of going on with my musicprofessionally 1 mean—somehow it doesn't seem to be of much importance to me now-- I don't know why Marriage and a professional career don't always go well together," observed Creed. " Not for a woman, at any rate." " But I'm not thinking of getting married!" returned Heather hurriedly. I thought Winter . There was tin awkward pause for a minute. The girl was sitting in a. big chair, looking out through the French windows to the garden. She had turned a little away from him, so that he could only see the line of her cheek and throat. " .1* came in this afternoon, because I wanted to thank you - . . ' she said at last slowly. "It's hard to say tilings, when one , . , feels them deeply. I'm ashamed of the way 1 have behaved, and you have been so kind, and lorbearing. Tom says you're . . ." Never mind what Tom says," put in Creed hastily. " And don't let us say any more about .it. Let's just bury the hatchet." There wasn't, really any hatchet," she said in a slightly wistful tone. Father used to say, I let. myself enjoy my fits of passion. I remember a phrase of Stevenson's lie used to qtioio to me, The barren ccstacy of anger." That's what mine always is, and yet I do try sometimes not to be such a such a little spti lire, I wouldn't let myself think well of you, though I knew, somewlu.ro deep down in my heart, that you were . . good." I assure you," said Stephen, " you've got quite a wrong impression. I'm not at all ' good' as you eaII it." Men regard it is much more of a compliment, to be thought bad, don't they?" she returned, " But I'm sorry, I can only think you kind . . . and good." And Winter. Is lie . . kind and good," too':" asked ('reed. Yes," she answered, " he is- in * different way. He's like a . . . , brother." Hum . . ." sa id ("reed drily. He was thinking of the anything but sisterly embrace, up on the bush track at Waka wai. "What's Winter been doing with himself'.'" i. haven't seen him about lately." He's gone up the coast to his own people for a few weeks. Tim Holding is looking after their place at the back of Weka' Flat." When did he go '' " The day after we came bark from Wakawai." She moved a little so that her hack was towards him. " I've something ciso

to confess," she said, speaking with some difficulty. " That night, in the bush . . I let, you tli ink. ... I. thought that. Billy had kissed me. I knew it wasn't, , . . Billy.'' I >ced eni.-scd and stood behind her. ■■ Had vou recognised me. when t .struck the match " he asked. She nodded miserably, si ill with 1 her back turned ; and then went on hurricdb : "Of course a kiss means nothing . . • really. But it was dishonest oi mc to let vou think . . . what, I did. bilK hasn't, ever . . - kissed me." " Hut 1 have, ami as »«ni as you ve f old mc that you . . ■ 1 ja, re tor mc, I'm going to kiss you again, ' said ( reed. He put, his arms round her, and raised her out of the chair, so that her face was on a level with his own. Her eyes deep blue, as summer seas, triithtu! aud tender, answered him. He knew now. that all the UTihappiness had gone out of the day all the restlessness, ami hi''k of harmony, out ot his life. Whatever the future might bring storm as well as sunshine, and the inevitable clash of temperament here at any rate was the .vile he wanted the gallant lit! Ie comrade he desired. Mrs. Trimble, entering with the tea tray, hesitated in dire, confusion. Should she retreaf. to the kitchen, or stand to her guns': She fact lully turned her back, ami rattled the trav on the fable. " The tea, sir," she said. ('reed swung round, still holding Heather in the crook of his arm. .Mrs. Trimble, vou shall be Mm first lo congratulate me' Miss Burnside. is going to marry mc." •' I'm sure I'm very pleased, sir. 1 II bring \oil some hot water, said Mrs. Trimble, all in one breath, am! made a hurried exit. Heather looked at f reed. h ou take a good ileal for granted!" she- said severely. Bui the. softness and sweetness of her eves belied her tone. " That's really the simplest plan, in fj j c end," he returned coolly. Come here." He led her over to his writing table, ami unlocked a drawer. "See!" he said. " Your first gift to me. Bon sou veil i i'." lb) lilted out two prosaic lit tie wooden pegs. " I wanted to kiss vou when vou gave me those on that first day , VI , and except for those moments when .I've longed lo box your ears -I ve been wanting to kiss you ever since. Heather raised her short, straight nose, and lifted her eyebrows. what, about. Mrs. Merrick-Stroiid ?" she asked. " A mere hallucination, my child," returned ('reed. " \\ e men arc subject to such things." " You'll be subject hj, them no longer then," said Heather, a gleam of mischief ui her shining eyes. .Mrs. Trimble, entering with the hot water, coughed discreet I\, TUT, KNO.