LURE OF THE LAND

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22346, 18 February 1936, Page 5

LURE OF THE LAND

BT ISABEL M. PEACOCKE

At seventy Mrs. Brereton should have been a proud and happy woman. Her old Colonial homestead set in the midst of rich fields and pastures was a delightful place in which to pass the eventide of life. She had flocks and herds, peace and plenty and a grown-up family of sons, and daughters who all looked up to her in love and reverence as the very fountain-head of all these fair possessions. But she was often conscious of a lonely sadness in her life, though far too proud to admit it, or its cause. Her husband had died "when her children were still young and to her disappointment only one of her sons took to work on the land. This was her eldest; Martin. The younger sons, Tom and Jim, became business men in tho neighbouring town and her daughters married early and went to homes of their own. But Martin delighted her. He was the only one ■who loved tho land as she did, with a deep-rooted passion for tho earth which taught him to understand all its moods, its intractability, its sudden yielding, its rich rewards or stubborn failures.

While admitting that his mother had done wonders, almost single-handed with the farm, Martin was eager to exploit new ideas, and his mother, stubbornly wccldcd to methods which had proved successful through uncounted seasons of toil —for was thcic not this comfortable homestead in place of a bush-covered hillside, to prove it?—derided his new experiments. The climax came when one of his failures resulted indirectly in tho loss of some very fine ewes. It was Christmas Day and the family sat awaiting Martin's entrance to take his accustomed placo at his mother's right hand. Ho came in with a white and troubled faco to confess the disaster.

"You take too much on yourself, Martin," she said, and then he too flared, accusing her of a stubborn and narrow-minded prejudice and a hatred of progress. The children, all much younger than he, sat staring at their plates. They loved their mother who was full of comradely fun and motherly tenderness, but they feared her too in her lightning moods, and now the scarlet flush of anger rose to her cheek and she ordered Martin to leave the table as if he were some impudent child. He rose at once, pale as death, shaking. "I'll go," he said, "but remember, mother, I'll never come to your tablo again until you beg mo to do so." "Eat your dinner, children," was all she said and Martin left the room and the house.

It may be imagined that Christmas dinner was lika ashes in her mouth, but she laughed and jested, pulled crackers and organised games for the children as usual. Martin had never

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come back. His mother's anger at last turned to alarm and then to acute anxiety which as the years went by deepened into a remorseful brooding sadness which her indomitable will taught her to hide for tho sake of her other children. Outwardly sho changed very little as age camo on, but in her heart she knew that sho began to grow old from the moment her son left her.

The farm prospered for she could afford good help and she had the halfproud, half-anguished experience of seeing many of the improvements suggested by Martin adopted with success, on her own farm and others. When the last of her children married and left her sho found herself alone save for tho farm servants in the picturesque old house which had overflowed with tho sound of children's laughter and quarrels and youthful turmoil. One companion she had, a faithful little greymuzzled dog with eves filmy with nge. The sight of the upright spare old lady and the little dog trotting stiffly at her heels was a familiar one about the farm. And when Jess died sho left a puppy like herself, who was also named Jess and took her mother's place in an old woman's heart.

On Mrs. Brereton's seventieth birthday there was a rounion at Riverslea, and sons and daughters and merry children all assembled round the great family table in tho dining-room. At Mrs. Brereton's right hand was set an empty chair and even tho youngest child present knew that it was Uncle Martin's chair on which no child must put so much as a finger on pain of grandmamma's displeasure. " For," sho said, " you never know when your uncle may walk in and want his tea. Ho was always ono for surprises." Lean times had taken their toll of the farm when tho prices of wool and buttorfat had fallen disastrously and expenses had to bo cut down. It fretted tho proud old woman almost unbearably for there h'ad always been a lavish plenty on the farm, and she hated to seo it go back through enforced economics. She had struggled valiantly, sacrificing many of her personal possessions, but though matters were now improving, it would take time and still more economy to make up tho lost ground. Tom was an estate agent in the town and he urged her to sell before tho place deteriorated for lack of running expenses. And sho was tired . . . and old.

So she consented, knowing that her consent" was at last a tacit admission that she had begun to despair of Martin's return. " Very well," she said grimly. "Find a buyer." And very soon he reported jubilantly that he had found one. "An Australian —seems pretty well in —and offers quite good terms." " Arrange it," said his mother unemotionally, " but don't ask me to see him."

" Poor old mum," said Tom with unusual understanding and gave her a rough hug. " Don't waste your pity on me," she said dryly. I know when I'm beaten; but remember we have my birthday gathering as we've always had —owner or no owner." " Right, old lady," said Tom heartily, but his eyes were moist and he said to his wife later, " She's so dead game—l hated to put tho deal through, after aU." So preparations went on in the usual lavish scale. Arrangements for the sale of Riverslea were complete. The owner was stopping at the hotel in the township and he and Tom had tramped over every inch of the farm together, though with a delicacy Tom had to admire ho refused to enter tho house until it should be vacated. " I would rather not intrude upon your mother," he said, " unless sho cares to ask me to do so." " Mother," suggested Tom, " why not ask Weston to dinner with us on vour birthday. He's a very decent chap and the poor beggar doesn't get much of a meal at the pub." " No," said Mrs. Brereton firmly, " wo havo no room for him," and added accusingly, "You are thinking of Martin's chair, but that is for no one but Martin." " It's morbid, you know," said Tom to his wife. " If once someone did sit in that chair she'd get over her mania about poor old Martin. Ho dead years ago or we'd have heard." The day before her birthday Mrs. Brereton spent alone. Her sons and daughters had arrived as usual the day previous, and the stable-yard was full of cars, Tom's over-worked rattling old " bus " as he called it, Jim's smart little two-seater, Jennie's serviceable Ford overflowing with parcels and children. Mrs. Brereton scorned motorcars and she remembered how Martin too, had much preferred a smart-look-ing horse and gig. Sho was glad that the noisy, jolly party of young people and children had gone off for tho day picnicking. They had all-tried to persuade her to come, but sho had said firmly, " No, 1 have something to do." She had planned a last solitary pilgrimage over the farm which had been created so largely by her own heroic toil. She would not wertr her heart on her sleeve and preferred that none should accompany her. Suddenly she caught her breath and stared, and then her face clouded. A man was loitering along the edge of the stream and just for a moment something about the tall figure in the distance had reminded her of Martin. But he was a stranger . . . tho now owner, of course . . . come to gloat . . . but that was not fair of her ... he had been quite unobtrusive . . . and yet, and yet . . . she could not forgive him for taking her son's birthright. "My foolish old eyes! I'm blind as a bati" sho told herself sharply, and turned her back. Tho old dog Jess had been pattering at her heels. Her eyes, too, were dimmed, her gait a little stiff, but life was still full of interest for her; a delicious smell here, a suggestion of rabbits there. She ran hither and thither busily, and suddenly a rat ran across her path. Bristling with eagerness, Jess gave

chase, yelping joyfully. The rat disappeared over the bank of the stream and Jess went after it. There was a sudden caving in of sodden earth and in a moment Jess was in the water. The fierce current caught and whirled her away. Old and stiff, the poor little dog could only paddle feebly in circles. " Jess! Jess!" screamed Mrs. Brereton, but she was helpless as the struggling animal. The man in the distance, however, heard that thin cry and saw in a moment what had happened. Without a moment's hesitation ho plunged into the water and swam to the rescue. The old woman watched breathlessly. It was really a stiff fight, for the rescuer was fully clothed, the current was strong and the little dog struggled in panic. Unable to move for the trembling of her limbs, Mrs. Brereton watched with straining eyes, and when the man steered for the bank and climbed out, dripping, the relief was so great that a sudden faintness gripped her and everything swam in a haze. When she opened her eyes again the man was walking rapidly away and Jess rather groggily was trotting soberly toward her, wagging a feeble tail and looking rather ashamed of herself. " Oh, Jess! Little Jess!" whispered her mistress. " I couldn't have borne to lose you, too —the last link." That night Mrs. Brereton was full of grateful praises for the new owner. " I'm ashamed," she said, "of being so ungrateful to such a fine fellow. Clothed and all ho sprang into the river to save a little dog!" She charged Tom in her name to beg Mr. Weston to share their festivities. " And will he sit in Uncle Martin's chair?" demanded the small girl. "Yes!" replied her grandmother. " Ho has*earned the right to sit where he pleases." The long dining tablo was laden with such a feast as tho hungry must dream of; a turkey, brown and crackling with rich juices, a ham, pink as a sunrise, home-made sausages, pudding and mince pies, fruit and nuts. Round the tablo were eager young faces and smiling older ones. Mrs. Broreton, in black silk, sat at one end, upright, pinkcheeked, silver-haired, a charming picture. . .• . But there was an empty chair. The all-important guest had not arrived. " Can't we begin, Grandma?" cried an impatient youngster. "Certainly not! We must wait for our guest," she replied, and as she spoke the guest came in, a tall, sparelybuilt man, with unruly dark hair sprinkled with grey. The light was at his back and Mrs. Brereton's eyes were no longer keen. She rose with a stately courtesy as her guest came toward her. " You aro most welcome to my tablo, Mr. Weston," sho said graciously. " Will you take this chair beside me?" The tall stranger stood for a moment with his hand on tho chair-back, and then as he slipped into the seat he said quietly: " Thank you, Mother —for my welcome home!" " Martin!" What a wealth of thanksgiving and joy l was in that cry, and Martin rose and took his mother in his arms.