FINALITY

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXII, Issue 22005, 11 January 1935, Page 15

FINALITY

BV BWTTCE CAREY

The story of a woman who regarded Mature as a rival, and the outcome. The air was heavy with the tang of rain. Not a room escaped it. Wedgely Braybrook, toying fitfully with fruit and nuts, looked across to his wife and smiled. " At last, Beth. It has been long in coming." She nodded. " We must take a taxi, Wedge. The car is at the garage." "Eh? Taxi? Ah, yes, of course. The Gillingtons! I had almost forgotten." Inwardly Beth Braybrook sighed. Outwardly she looked quite cool, and helped herself to a walnut. He had forgotten. No need to disguise tho fact. He was always forgetting. Had always forgotten—ever since he had left the backblock station in which his heart had been so deeply bound. The citj—its ease; its luxuries —meant nothing to him. He worshipped Nature. In her alone he found contentment

She might have known it would always be thus. Ever since the da3'S of their earliest lovemaking his love for Nature had been apparent. She had been jealous of it. Ahl How jealous—when he had turned from the contemplation of her beauty to rave about a waning sunset; when he had ceased listening to her voice, to raise his head to a minute bird call. She hated Nature. Hated it with an insistence that never wavered. Yet for years she had endured it; lived in it. For years —until an unexpected offer to purchase had enabled Braybrook to dispose of his holding at almost boom figures. Then he had indulged her whim; bought a house in town, modelled it, furnished it, turned it into a home of utmost luxury and had endeavoured to settle down to life as a city gentleman. But always his heart had yearned. Always the glare and bustle of city life disturbed him. He longed for the open spaces as a caged thing longs for freedom. He hated the everlasting round of dinners, parties, dances. Life was no longer a thing to glory in; it was something to be endured, something which began in the morning and ended in the evening. She could see it. She knew. And yet, knowing, she hid her knowledge. She glanced across at his slender figure, and a tender light crept into her eyes. He was adorable, this husband of hers. Slipping as they were into middle age, she loved him as fiercely as she had in the days of their early youth. Her eyes caressed his face. It was tired-looking, pale. She realised the fact with a start. The city had not bestowed upon him the beauty it had given to her. Her hair lay dark and sleek about her shapely head. Where it touched the nape of her round white neck it twisted into a riot of curls. Her cheeks were smooth; her eyes bright. She looked but half her age. Wedgely had aged. She could not ignore that fact. When they had lived at Long Bush his face had been boyish, his manner youthful. Now his cheeks seemed drawn. His hair had been touched in many a place with tiny threads of silver. He had lost that joy of life for which he had been so famed. Well, he was bound to lose it one day, she told herself defiantly. But she could not ignore the fact that Wedgely had aged very rapidly since he had disposed of the station; since she, Beth, had wooed him away from the haunts of his first love —Nature. He rose abruptly and crossed to the casement windows. The night was dark. A gust of wind raced through his curls as he flung the windows wide, like a hand —caressing. He lifted his head, sniffing at the wind as a hound awaiting scent. And gradually the dullness in his eyes gave way to awakening interest.

" A summer storm, Beth. A pity it must be wasted."

She looked up quickly. His voice was strangely wistful. " Why wasted, Wedgely. Isn't rain always rain?" The faintest of smiles crossed his even features.

" Yes —rain is always rain," he admitted, " but its reception, Beth! How different. Here it will fall from a sky superbly grey on to miles of roads and houses. Galvanised iron, concrete, bitumen." He smiled again. " Their only response will be a wet and desolate gleaming. Out there ..." His voice took on a softer tone. She could not see his expression. Had no desire to see it. It would be filled with that tenderness which is reserved for the loved —and absent. " Out there it is all so different. Soil, fresh from the blades of a gleaming plough, lifting its face in welcome to greet it. Can't yon just see how each spot of rain sinks softly into its bare brown bosom? —tired little travellers at the end of a journey. And the perfume, Beth! Sweeter than roses at eventide." There was yearning in his voice. Beth Bray brook shivered. There it was again—that everlasting spell of Nature which she had thought lay beaten. Was it to be war—war —war to the end? Nature was cunning. She did not fight and lose with graciousness. She waited until in some weak moment her one-time lovers lay open to her charm. Then she drugged them with her mystery —dragged them back with possessive hands Seeing the eager light in his eyes she shivered. She who had fought and imagined the fight won. a . s s always to go on—until her spirit sank from utter weariness; until her mind had to let him go back because it could no longer fight to keep him. She shivered again, and then as suddenly raised her head defiantly. I his was no way to keep the husband she adored—this frightened, puny whimpering beneath a power she once had conquered. She would fight again, dine away the- spell that was entering his heart. He should not go back to the backblock wilderness. He was hers

. . . hers. " You are right, Wedge. Raindrops deserve a better end than running in a gutter. But come —«e must hurry. The Gillingtons . . . !" " Ah. yes . . . the Gillingtons! Bray brook turned from the window, his expression peculiarly dreamy, as if his lips were framing words that came not from his mind. She smiled. And gradually his eyes beheld her. His arm slid round her shoulders. " You are very proud of the Gillingtons." " They are very correct people, she retorted happily. Her spirit was almost triumphant. Once again the call of his first love had fallen back before her charm. " It has taken me months to enter that circle. Wedge. They are so exclusive. But now. . . ." Her eyes gleamed happily. The brightest of roses bloomed in her cheeks. Her lips were smiling. To Wedgely they held an invitation. He held her close.

" But now—you have achieved your purpose,!' he said softly. " I am not a bit surprised. You are irresistible." She glanced up from his arms. " Do you find me irresistible?, Wedgely?" He nodded. " The most irresistible force in my world." Her head slipped back against his shoulder. She „felt strangely tranquil—at peace

But not for long. As they hurried

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down the wide front steps to the waiting taxi he again lifted his head to the wind. Round beads of mojsture immediately caressed it; clinging to his lashes, trickling round his lips. " Lilcti the times when we rode to Andy Nicholson's place," he said, happily. " Didn't he love a game of five hundred, Beth?" She nodded, and drew closer to the side of the taxi. For some unaccountable reason her triumph was turning to anger.

" You . could hardly compare this night with a night at Andy Nicholson's," she said, tartly. " A five-mile ride over dark, horrid country to a house that possessed not the slightest bit of comfort." He laughed. '' There were stars, Beth —glorious, bright-eyed jewels of light. And the smell of grass beneath the horses' feet."

Again the yearning was in his voice. " Andrew always kept his doors and windows open to the beauty of the night." " And let a horde of insects in. It's no use, Wedgely. You can have your horrid country life. For me—the city, and comfort."

He smiled, and assisted her to alight

The Gillingtons were a family of undeniable social standing. Everyone who was anyone sought admittance into thdir circle. Sometimes they succeeded in entering it; sometimes they failed. And as they succeeded or failed so were they admitted or rejected by others. The Bra.vbrooks had been lucky. Right from the very commencement of her aspirations in the social world, Beth Braybrook had carried everything before her. Her grace, her beauty, the charm which always attended her, were ever ready passports.

, As she entered the Gillington's hall, Wedgely tall, well-groomed beside her, her feeling of anger passed. It was ridiculous. As if she really had anything to fear. As if the charm of untrained Nature, wild rugged hills, broken roadways, barren wastes, could compare with the orderly trend of society, with its fullness, its riches, its luxury. If she could conquer the coldness of strangers how much easier would it be to conquer Wedgely's longings. He had said she was irresistible. He would never really go back.

The spacious drawing room, with its wealth of beauty, a scene of outstanding charm. Even Wedgely seemed impressed. He took his appointed seat at a bridge table with the air of one who really meant to enjoy every hour of the long-drawn night. Beth realised with exultation that one of his opponents was Gillington himself. Wedgely was honoured. The great man seldom made new friends. He was tall, lean-looking—just like Wedcely. Years older, of course. His expression was austere, but—when it was not drawn up with coughing—particularly genial. His cough certainly was distressing—the result of a late directors' meeting—but it did not affect the delicacy of his play.

In spite of the need for skill in her own game Beth was able now and then to follow Wedgely's play. He was being sadly beaten. It was well. It would spur him to further effort. There was no trace of storm when the Braybrooks departed. The moon shone brilliantly overhead. Wedgely did not seem to notice it. He was quiet, dreamv.

" Gillington plays a topping game," he announced as he slowly discarded his neat dress suit. " A very fine game." " You enjoyed yourself, Wedge? " " Immensely."

She sank into her pillows happily. Perhaps, after all, she had found a means of herding him into society. Bridge! Wedgely loved good bridge. She would collect players. Good players I And she would gradually lull his backblock longings into a lasting sleep. She would fight his cravings for the open spaces; and fighting, she would win. Fierce exultation surged through her being. She would win! Wedgely was hers, body and spirit. If she had to share his mind with Nature it should be but a temporary sharing. She would wrest it away. She could wrest it away! Wedgely had only to become enamoured with the things of her life and he would be a willing captive. She turned on her side and slept.

Morning came all too soon. Wedgely awoke with a violent headache. His cheeks were hot and flushed. She eyed him anxiously. He returned her gaze with a poor attempt at cheerfulness. " The window, Beth, old dear—would you mind opening it wider? I'm just longing for the breeze."

Bleakly she obeyed. A gust of wind immediately entered, settled round his head, moving his curls with a tender unseen finger. He turned his lips toward it, closed his eyes.

" D'vou remember the air at Long Bush, Beth? As exhilarating as wine." His voice seemed strangely weak. He made no attempt to raise his lids. Against the pallor of his face his eyes were terribly shadowed. She bent over him, suddenly, horribly afraid. " And the hills," he murmured wearily. " ' I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.' " Quoting!

He was silent after that, breathing in short, quick gasps. " 'Flu," the doctor announced some hours late. " And a pretty bad dose. Serves him right. He was at Bruce Gillington's last night, wasn't he? And that mad hatter was running a temperature of nearly a hundred and one. People should not go into crowded rooms when there's an epidemic about. Someone is.bound to have a germ." Recollection of a hacking cough raced through Beth Braybrook's mind. " Is Mr. Gillington down with it, too? " " Down with it? He'll have a pretty tough fight before he is up again! I warned him. But these social fiends—however, for once I think we must give thanks to the germ, Mrs. Bravbrook." A hoarse cough came from the other room. She eyed him blankly. " In fact, it's a blessing in disguise. Your husband is not quite as sound as he might be—his lungs—" The doctor broke off abruptly. Into her eyes had crept a baffled fear. She clenched her hands desperately. " You mean—"

" Nothing to really worry about. Fresh air, abundance of it, will put him right in no time. Get him out of the city. Persuade him ..to take up a farm again somewhere • among the hills."

Out of the city! Take up a farm again! " Is there no alternative? " Breathlessly she waited.

" No successful alternative. The city is slowly killing him. Try to make him fond of Nature. Safety lies that way."

With feet that seemed suddenly grown too heavy she returned to Wedgely's bedside. His eyes were open now, seeking her glance with almost feverish pleading. " You know. Beth, about the hills. Do you mind? " Heroically she stemmed the tears that threatened to betray her. "Mind? Why should I mind"—not a hint of despair sounded through her voice—" as long as you get well?" " But the country, Beth —you hate it so."

" You must teach me to love it," she said.