THE NEW HOUSE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVII, Issue 20656, 30 August 1930, Page 15 (Supplement)

THE NEW HOUSE.

BY AUDREY AUGALL

Old Mrs. Hilton walked slowly down jtho garden path, and stood looking at tho new house. A largo modern bungalow, insolent in its coat of green and white, it trespassed over tho remains or her hedge, covered two flower l>eds, and came to an end in :i broken and trampled rose bed. Methodically she stooped to succour a broken rambler; and then remembering that it was no use, and that the best had teen removed, sighed and sat down. Tho seat under a clump of bamboo had been put up hy Iter husband, so that in tho evenings she could sit and watch tho pun sotting beyond tho wido fields that they had cultivated. Now the great green end whito house blocked her view. Tliev might havo waited a little longer, phn thought. .Miin would never have sold tlm laud she loved. Alan had taken as gre.it an interest 111 everything as his fatlier. Ho would never havo wanted to Sho pulled herself together. Sometimes sho forgot tilings these days; forgot, that Alan, her favourite, had .stayed behind in Flanders. 1 she rebuked herself for an unkind .thought. Cranston was a good son, and successful. They had dono well, her children. All the same, sho wished they would leave her alouo; leave her in peace in the old house that was always so full .'of memories lor her. 1 hey said that it. was for her good. That it was had for her to be so lonely. That, if she sold tho farm, and came to live in Auckland they would be able to see so much more «f her. Marir. Hilton, despite her ago and unirertcin memory was still shrewd. She smih-d to herself. When she had proved obdurate Norah had driven up. Norah, plumpish, matronly and capable, married to 'i doctor with a large and fashionable practice. Norah had taken.off her new fur coat, and crossing her expensively shod feet, frowned fit her mother. " You know mother you must allow Cranston to know better than you. W hat is the u-e of this big farm? Cranston is not likely to give up his flourishing practice to become a farmer. lib will .soon bo a K.C. they say, and ho really hasn't time /to bother with a place like this." " (.Mi no." murmured her mother. " I scarcely expected that, you know." Norah continued unpcrturbably. " The latid isn't doing any good for it(ielf just rented to peoplo who take no real interest in it. Then when wo have tho chance c-f a splendid offer—an offer in a thousand, Cranston says—you stand in our way." Sha hastily corrected herself. " Your own way, I mean. You knowmot her I really am afraid you are getting a little bit selfish. 1 suppose it is living alone so much. You really ought to consider your family more. You know I havo a great struggle to make ends meet." " I hadn't "noticed it particularly, my Bear." her mother commented. •'I have to keep up my husband's position." replied Norah with dignity. " And I do so want to give my children every chance. A good start in life is so essential." i '• Your brothers hegan life helping their father with the milking." her mother reminded her. Little Alan loves the farm. He is never as happy as when ho is staying here with me. He takes after his uncle. I expect he will want to he a farmer." Mrs. Hilton continued. " Oh, Granny do-ft he foolish. What notice can one take of the preferences of a small boy." " A great deal." said her mother unexpectedly. " But have it your own way." she went, on wearily. " 1 am too old and too tired to fight. I do not suppose it matters much where I end my days." ■4 + + * * Day by day the new house had been growing before her eyes until now, in its cav Tccn arid white, it was almost complot ed. '1 hen, she supposed they would begin demolishingj tho old home, whose proximity would by a blemish to its fair beaut v. She felt that she should be get/'ting ready, but she had no heart for anything.' Norah and Cranston had written delighted and ecstastical letters to her. They had discovered just tho right little home for her, in Rernuera; quite near them both, and with a delightful view of the sea. The sea! thought old Mrs. Hilton. Tt is tho fields and the bush that I want to gee. i ,\ car stopped before the new house. Mrs. Hilton brightened. This must be the young Mistress, ihe new owner had told "her that lie was going to bring her out. next tihne. They went into tho house, and old Mrs. Hilton indulged in pleasant reflections. " What a lucky bride she would be to have such a beautiful homo to start with." Mrs. Hilton hoped that she would bo fond of gardening. She would like to think that /some of her work was being carried on. There was always something new to plan in a garden, ll was, sho decided, quite a good thing that some of tho trees had been cut down. Planted by her husband many years ago, originally for shelter, in later ytfars they had been inclined to shade the place, but sho had not liked to touch them. Lost in her dreams time passed quickly. She looked up, surprised, to the visitors coming towards her. Sho had a feeling of consternation. No. happy exultant faces; rather the one cross, tho <>ther disappointed and hurt. Sho felt unhappy. Young Malcom was a dear boy. Sho hated to see him lookin;; like that. The two women were introduced. " Owen wants several things altered." ho explained shortly. " I have to rush round, and/ hunt up the builder. I thought perhaps if she could stay with Y"u for a litle while. The dear boy was looking worried. Mrs. Jlilton, siting up tho situation rapidly, replied that sho -would be delighted, and went indoors to order tea. Sho proceeded diplomatically while they sat over their dainty tea on tho verandah. "So this is your first visit. You are rerjy. lucky to have such a beautiful home to Ileum with, my dear." " Oh, 1 do know." answered the girl carelessly. "It is not nearly as nice as my own home. I told Jim that he .wiuld have to alter lots of things." " Surely it is rather late for extensive alft-rat ions ?" "Oh it will have to be done. At homo I have everything as 1 want it." Mrs. Hilton spoke decidedly. "Jf you will forgive' an old woman speaking so plainly—that is where you arc making a big mistake, my dear. You should not < \pei u to begin marriage at tho point where your father left off. Probably when your father and mother married 1 hey did not go into tho house in which you now live. I expect like most New Zealanders his success has been the result of early struggles, and hard work. If she did not start with all the things which she now has, she will appreciate them all tHe more now. I think part of the joy of married life is realising ones amluv.ons, adding to ones possessions bit by hit; so that each one represents some desire achieved—perhaps long schemed for."

still th<£ trill sat sullen. " Perhaps tliiit is true." she admitted grudgingly. Hut why should I waste the best days of my life shut in a place like this? I have nevflr done much housework, but wo have everything labour-saving, and convenient .at home. Why should I get hot and dirty with a range for instance? It, will bo bad enough to live here away from all my friends, and dances, anil theatres, and all the jolly things I have alwavs had."

" Well." said old Maria Hilton, " If your vtning man isn't worth the sacrifice of a few pleasures. . . . because there is a'great deal of sacrifice in all raarried life* * * . "

(A NEW ZEALAND STORY).

(COPYRIGHT.)

" Oh, I wouldn't give up Jim for anything." Owen interrupted quickly, "But I don't see why I shouldn t have some of tho other things too." Mrs. Hilton sighed. " When I first camo here, a bride," sho said, " There was nothing but bush all round. I was accustomed to nice things. . . . but we lived in a two-roomed shack. It is now, with the partition removed, tho dining room. The other rooms wore added as we could afford them, which accounts for its polyglot appearance. " I was quito as happy in those days as in any later. I suppose you want an electric cooker. I was content and successful with an old camp oven, standing on three legs; and I used to do my washing down by tho creek for a long time. Wo had to clear away the bush and tho scrub, before wo could begin to farm. I remember how proud we both felt when we saw tho pale sheen of grass on our first ploughed land. Wo were busy and happy. It seemed no timo beforo wo were milking a few cows, and I had my chickens and garden. We used to make nil annual visit to Auckland to buy things for the farm, and clothes, and more furniture and necessaries. It took two days to get there in those days, a long uncomfortable journey. It takes you. . . " " About two and a half hours." answered the girl. "Wo had practically no roads, of course," Mrs. Hilton went on. " The nearest township, which was little more than a village, wis quite a journey away. Twice a week I used to get up aboui, four o'clock in the morning and make my butter; big golden pats that were a tremendous source of pride to me. Then with a big basket of eggs and butter I would ride to the mill camps. There were several around hero in those days, and everything I brought was welcome. Sixpence a pound we used to get for butter, and I used to come home delighted with my few shillings. Of course it, was not all fair weather." sho went on. " Wo had somo bad times too, floods, losses, illness. 1 remember sitting up all one terrible night, watching my baby die, while my husband rode through the storm for the doctor. It was morning before they arrived : exhausted and muddy, having had to swim their horses over the swollen creeks. Had ho been able to have arrived an hoyr or two sooner, he could havo saved the child, the doctor said." They wero silent for a while; the old woman reliving the dfiys of her youth; the young girl feeling herself in the presence of something r 'fin and great. To one who had knowji such privations, such sorrows, how paltry and insignificant must her little worries seem. " Oh, well. We won through." said Mrs. Hilton at last. " My husband and I saw the farm develop, watched our fields grow more fertile and productive each year, and our little family grow up healthy and successful. W r o wero repaid for all our early struggles." She turned suddenly to Gvren. " Was your father any relation to George Chambers ? " " His name is George."- said his daughter. The old woman smiled. " I thought the name seemed familiar. He used to work for us years ago. He helped to clear that field by the side of the road. He was glad of any odd job in those days. ... So T suppose your mother did not always live as she does now. Although, of course, that was many years before you were born." So engrossed were they in their conversation, that they did not notice Jim Malcolm approach, until he stood upon the verandah. " ][ found the man at last." he said. " I must come out and see him again next week. I explained the alterations you want. He says it will be a difficult job, but ho will do what he cjrt. . . adds to the expense tremendously of course." Jim looked tired ami worried. Gwen turned to him. " I don't know," she said. " I have been thinking things over. Perhaps we needn't bother after all. We have everything wo want to start with." A look of incredulous delight spread over Jim's face. Then ho looked at old Mrs. Hilton, and the surprise faded. " Wonder what she said? The old dear." he thought. " We must bfe going, I expect." said Gwen. She turned to Mrs. Hilton. " Thank you so much." she said. Then . If only we weren't turning you out of your own home. . . . Couldn't you stay. We will leave the old house." " That was impossible." Mrs. Hilton declared. " Never mind. You must come and Stay with us often, and advise me about the garden, or I shall be planting all tho wrong things. Wo are very anxious to keep it up. Aren't we, Jim?" *#* * * ♦ Old Mrs. Hilton watched the car until it was out of sight. She felt happier than she had done for a long time. It was, she reflected, a law of nature that age had given way to youth. She looked at the " New House." No longer did it seem an interloper, but rather a torch to relight the dwindling flamo of her own life.