IN APPLE BLOSSOM TIME.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXII, Issue 19027, 26 May 1925, Page 5

IN APPLE BLOSSOM TIME.

BY L. G. MOBERLY.

Author of " Cleansing Fires." "In the v Balance," " Hopo, My Wife." " Violet Dunstan," etc.. etc. (Copyright). SYNOPSIS. And row and Bertha Delaton,. a happy, though childlefi3 couple, entertain at their farm, Glodatancs, Denis Brennington and Marjory Henderson. The couplo named meeting in the country in apple blossom time, fall in lovo and plight their troth under the apple tree*. A telegram arrives for Brennington. His father is very ill. The lovers are separated for far longer than thoy anticipate. Denis, arriving home, learns from liis sister, Sylvia, that their father i 3 doad and their mother heart-broken. Denis Brennington hears from the family doctor that Mr. Brennington's death was duo to financial hisses and business worries,. Bonerally. Herbert Martin, the family solicitor, and Denis, go into the business affairs of tho dead man, and find everything in a financial tangle. Mr. Brennington had tried to redeem his business losses by unwißO speculations. This has led to hopeless confusion, and the laying on his son's shoulders, a heavy burden of debt. The lawyer's suggestions for economy aro not entertained, and Mrs. Brennington wilfully refuses to consider money matters at aIL Her sou expostulates; she weeps. CHAPTER 111. (Continued). When her son first intimated to her that her expenditure must be curtailed, she broke into tho soft weeping which reduced Denis to despair. She lay on her sofa wiping her eyes with a flimsy handkerchief, crying with a gentle and pathetic abandonment calculated 10 make a tenderhearted man feel that he must "be an unsympathetic brute to evoke such grief. And Denis was very tender-hearted. To be in any way the cause of added sorrow to his mother hurt him as a physical blow would have done; and Mrs. Brennington was, as she had always been, a past mistress in tho art of making 0 man feel hopelessly in the wrong. She had long ago resigned herself to the conviction that tears were wasted upon her daughter, but when sho and Denis had a difference of opinion sho found them extremely effective weapons. "1 can't understand jour even wishing to discuss money matters with one now," she said in her soft voice, tho tears slowly dropping down her cheeks, "all I care for is to be left alone to face my great sorrow, to try to take up my broken life. What does money matter to me now ? Money is simply nothing—less than nothing, when one comes tace to faco with death and eternity." A flow of language was another of Mrs. Brenuington's most valuable and mostused Weapons, and both Denis and his father had never failed to be reduced to a condition of semi-paralysis by the glibness of her speech. Sylvia long ago had learnt to look upon it from an entirely different standpoint. "I know, mother!—l know!" Denis said, patiently. "Don't cry; I didn't mean to upset you, but ■" "You didn't mean to upset me!" her voice quivered piteously. "But you are so thoughtless, Denis—so unlike him. You might have guessed that the bare idea of talking over money affairs without him would be like turning a knifo in my heart," sho said drearily. "I am very sorry, mother." Commonsense pushed its way through Denis' ten-der-heartedness, and showed him that, even at the risk of further tears, he must make her realise, at least, something of the truth. "I am very sorry to say or do anything that .hurts you, but in the weeks since my father's death Mr. Martin and I have been going carefully into ways and means. I think you really ought to understand that—that—well, that you aro not so well off as you were in his lifetime." "Well off!" she sobbed, pressing her handkerchief to her face. "What does it matter to me whether I am rich or poor. Without John all life is a howling wilderness: How am I going to live without him at all ? How oan I bear the \veary days, the lonely, awful nights? What do I care about the wretched money? Give mo one black garment to wear, and that is all I want foe clothes. Give me dry bread and water for food, only don't worry me about money." Even Denis, who, like his father, had always adored his pretty, charming mother, even Denis could scarcely refrain from smiling, as his mind rapidly compared the picture drawn by Mrs. Brennington with the actualities of her life." The one black garment for which sho craved had resolved itself into the most elaborate and expensive mourning. The bills for it had been partly responsible for the present interview. They had horrified Denisv and he realised acutely that some brako must be put at tmce upon his mother's extravagance. As for feeding on bread and water—well, tho delicacies provided for her meals had been formidable items in the weekly books; and most out-of-season dainties seemed to bo the only food the mourning lady could bv any possibility eat. Denis adhere'd .to his ed termination not to allow his mother to know tho truth about her husband's affairs, and her own practical destitution; but a moment's sano reflection showed him that he must not allow her completely to ignore tho emergencies of tho situation.

"My dear mother," ho said, with unusual firmness, "there is no questiop of reducing you to one garment, or to bread and water,- but it is perfectly plain that wo must economise; wo cannot possibly live at the rato at which we have been doing."

" Do what you like about all those paltry money matters," moaned Mrs. Brennington, her blue eyes shining with tears, " but don't, worry mo with them. He never fretted mo about money. Whatever I wanted, I had, and now ho is gono I am alone —utterly alone." Again she broke into soft weeping and Denis, feeling that ho was a bruto, knelt clown by her side and stroked her hand, the littlo white hand that looked so helpless and so pathetic. " Not alone, Mother dear," he said, " Sylvia and I will do out utmost to make you happy," "Happy!" She uttered tho word with vehemence. "I shall never bo happy again —never! My happiness lies in his grave. Ho and I were all the world to each other. 1 ought to have died with him. Ho was all mv world."

A faint feeling of exasperation stole across Denis's sympathy. After all, he reflected, it was rather hard that his mother so completely ignored the son and daughter who were willing to sacrifice their lives for her. But ho thrust away the thought as both unkind and disloyal and, set himself to soothe the sobbing wfjuan on the couch. ""Very well, dear, wo won't discuss money any more," ho said gently. "Sylvia and I will do our best to get along, and not let you be worried." " He never let me bo worried," sho sobbed. " He shielded me from every breath of suffering and anxiety. " And wo will try to do the same," Denis answered, " only we will ask you to help us by—by not running up bills, dear. We can't afford nowadays to run up bills." " I am glad .you and Sylvia will try to prevent my being worried," sho said, quite ignoring the end of his sentence. "I am not fit to stand up against things. Ho always sail! so. He said I was like a delicate (lower, that must be sheltered from every wind that blew. If you and' Sylvia take care of me life won't bo so cruolly hard." " 1 can't really make her understand Miings," Denis said afterwards to .his sistor. " At least," he amended, " I don't think sho wants to understand." " I don't suppose she does." There was a cert,'fin dryness in Sylvia's tones. " But, at any rate, if mother has made up her mind not to understand something, no power on earth will make her understand it. Sho is like a soft cushion," the girl added reflectively. " You make a dent in it one rninute, and the next there is no sign of the dent. Oh! I don't mean to bo disrespectful, Denis/' sho added,

seeing the look on her brother's face, " but I have been with mother more than you have, and perhaps I know her better. Anyhow wo. can't alter her .now." ' v "I quite agree with you. Wo must justi try to take father's place, and shelter her. But frankly it is not going to bo easy to make things as smooth for her as sho would like. Money is not too ;plentiftil, and thero'is no doubt whatever that Martin's notion about paying guests was the really sensible . solution of our difficulty. The house is big enough- If wo had people hero they need not worry mother at all. We could arrange to keep her happy and secluded in her own rooms, and sho and the guests need never meet. But you think that, even so, sho would disliko the idea?" " Denis she would make life almost unbearable if you ever suggested it lo her* I don't want to be nasty about poor mother, but I know what always happens if sho comes up against something sho dislikes. Sho—she is intolerable. Let us try everything else before we begin to think of paying guests—if we ever have to think of them." Denis touched his sister's shoulder caressingly. " You poor little thing. I believe you have often had a far worse time th?,n any of us realised. We will put aside tho question of paying guests for. the present, and just do the best wo can." CHAPTER IV. AT MEJKStAKE. - H- " Well, Marjory, of course it is no concern of mine, except that I naturally tako an interest in you." There was a faint smile in Marjory's eyes as sho listened to her aunt's words. It was a polite fiction of Mrs.-Creighton's that she never interfered with the busings of other people, and that their affairs were, as she put it, "no concern" of hers. Nevertheless sho had a predilection, that almost amounted to a passion, for putting her finger into the pies of her neighbours; for offering them unasked advice, and for interesting herself feverishly in all their interests. " What I say is," she went on, when Marjory did not answer her remark, " never leave things indefinite with a man.. Be engaged or don't bo engaged, but don't take any half-measures. Nature ally, you must decide for yourselves in something which chiefly concerns your-! self." " Naturally," Marjory said under he? breath. $ "But I.am a woman of the world, with a good deal more experience than you have, and I feel I ought just to say to you bo careful. , Don't let Mr. Brennington play fast and loose with you." " I don't think ho has the slightest wish to play fast and' loose with me," Marjory's gaze wandered from her aunt's capacious form to the L garden visible through the open window, where the roses were all ablow and great puffs of sweetness drifted up from the mignonette that edged the herbaceous border. He wanted to break off our engage" ment, and I refused. He did not v. wish for anything that could harm me. I would not have the engagement broken off." " Foolish of you, my dear, if I may venture to say so—very foolish. A long, indefinite engagement is a great mistake. From what you tell me, Mr. Brennington may not be free to marry you for years and years—not until you aro both middle-aged—if then." Marjory repeated, " But why can't we wait, Aunt Alice ? I certainly don't want to marry anybody but Denis; and other people have had long engagements, and married happily at the end of them." "'Well, my dear, you are my only sister's only daughter, and I want to see you happy"—Mrs. Creighton smoothed down the front of her bodice with a. gesture peculiar to her, thus emphasising tho firm plumpness of her proportions—"and, though I like the very little I have ever seen of Mr. Brennington, still I do wish sometimes you had been more inclined to lot Hugh Tranleigh's friendship for yotl ripen into something warmer, I am sure it would, if you gave him the least encouragement. Of course, I don't like dis- ■ cussing these things, but I fpel as if I must say this." Although Marjory flushed, and a little flame of annoyance leapt.into her eyes, sho smiled. That' her aunt did not like discussing other peoplo's lovo affairs (and, indeed, all their affairs) was a delightful fiction indulged in by Mrs. Creighton, who liked nothing better than discussing every, stage of love, from its earliest inception, j through the devious ways of courtship, to [ the happy climax of,the wedding morning, " Hugh Tranleigh is nothing more than a friend. I have not the slightest wish for anything closer. I don't care in tho Isast for him in that way." " I only wish yon did," Mrs. Creighton sighed, the voluminous sigh of a stout woman. You know, Marjory, I can't boar to think of you wasting the best years of your life waiting for Dennis Brennington. Hugh is already in a position to marrv."

" But I don't want to mary him, even supposing ho wanted to marry me," Mar. jory answered with a voxed laugh, " and I have no intention whatever of wasting uny lifo. The time has long gone by Since women merely sat and waited for a husband to carry them off. You need not be afraid that I shall waste my life." " You are so energetic, dear, so full of vigour," again Mrs. Creighton sighed, " everybody young nowadays seems far more ready to work and do things than when I was a girl. And certainly there is plenty to do in Merslake," she ended' complacently, " I wonder," Marjory said, her gaze wandering again over the garden toward the meadows, from which came the sound of the cuckoo's call. "We all seem very busy running round, but how much of our running is really necessary? " She spoke musingly. Mrs. Creighton, having picked up a library book from the table, only answered with a grunt, while Marjory's thoughts flew back over the years of her life in the quiet provincial town. She had come there as a child of ten, after the death of both her parents, and her homo ever since had been with her mother's sister, the good- . natured, childless widow, who had given her a warm welcome and unceasing kindliness. Life had flowed on with a peaceful monotony through her childhood and early girlhood. She 1 -and Mrs. 'Creighton had gone every summer to the seaside. In later years they had taken occasional trips to the Continent. More lately still she had paid visits to friends 'in various places, and she was conscious that the visits to theso friends had given her j'limpses of an horizon wider than Mcrsiaok could offer; and of intellectual interests beyond the ken of her kindly, but quite uncultured aunt. In the littlo coun'.ry town which was her home she had done as other girls of her age „did —a ittle philanthropic work, a certain amount of social amusement, with soma efforts after educational improvement ia. the shapo of a Browning Society, a debating society, and extension' lectures. And all at once, as she looked across the sunnny garden and heard the cuckoo's call, a littlo sense of futility fell upon her; a sudden feeling that she must find somei hing more to fill her life, if years of waits aig for Denis stretched before her. (To bo continued daily.)