THE AWAKENING OF WALTER LIDIARD.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1746, 23 August 1905, Page 6

THE AWAKENING OF WALTER LIDIARD.

(By E. Newton Bungey.) Not far froan the town of Taunton, on the road that leads to the village of Meddon there stands an old farmhouse. It lays back some way from the road, but, looking across the well-kept lawn, the eyes are gladdened by the white latticed windows, the dimity curtains, and the quaint, redtiled roof. Evidence, alas! of a generation fast dying out in this age of progress. About the year 189— the old farmhouse was the scene of unusual hurry and bustle. In the road the dogcart was waiting, whilst the farm carter was loading it with a portmanteau and sundry bags. Inside the farmhouse John Lidiard and his wife were bidding good-bye to their only son, Walter. The lad. who was about eighteen years of age, was leaving the home of his childhood to take up an appointment in a London office. His parents stood regarding him with loving eyes, for he was their only child. They had managed to give him a very good education, for it had been Farmer Lidiard’s intention all along to give the boy a tetter chance than he would stand by staying on the land. “Farming isn’t what it used to be,” he said. “Lunnon’s the place to make money in nowadays.” So Walter Lidiard had prepared to journey to the Metropolis to pick up some of the gold that is supposed to carpet its streets. “Lawyer Bussell will look after ’ee, lad,” said the farmer. “Stick to your work, Wally, an’ write us as often as you can.” “We’ll see you again at Christmas, Wally,’’ added his mother, with a sigh. The parting with her only child was a sore blow to her, for sue idolised the boy who had come to her late in her married life. She was now fifty yeart, of age, an' age when one loses the enthusiasm of youth, and broods quietly over disappointments. “You may be sure, mother,” Walter replied. “I shall long for Christmas to .come, so that I shall see you again.” “Now, lad, we mustn’t keep ’ee,” said his father, “or you’ll miss the train. Always be honest, my boy, in your work and in your life, and ye’ll never regret it; that’s your father’s last words. Good-bye, lad.” He gripped his son’s hand, and turned away in case the mist

before his eyes should be noticed; for the sturdy old yeoman was' deeply touched. Mre Lidiard threw her arms around Walter, and pressed him to her bosom; but it was only when he was in the dogcart that he felt his cheeks were wet with her tears. So Walter left his home, his last me>mory being of his father and mother standing at the wicket gate waving their handkerchiefs as a last farewell. The last part of the year slowly pas&ed till Christmas came, and then Walter hurried to the home of his childhood. But the few days flew by with lightning speed, and soon Walter was back again at his desk. Another year slipped by, and another.. Each holiday—Christmas, Easter, and his summer vacation —Walter had spent with his father and mother in Somersetshire. In this manner the time went by till Walter was in his twenty-third year. He had got on very well in business, and had already obtained a position of trust. His employers were taking an interest in him, and had advanced his salary on several occasions in a very handsome manner. ’ About this rime several of the clerics in the office with whom Walter had become friendly, persuaded him to move to more fashionable room® at Highgate. Here he was introduced to a number of well-to-do people, with whom the majority of his evenings were spent. That year he did not go home for his summer holidays, but wrote to say that he was going with several l of his new friends to Scarborough. When the letter reached the farmhouse, and had been read over several times, it brought a sorrowful pang to the heart® of the old people. They looked forward to their son’s homecomings as the great event of the year. Only those who have lived their lives in the quiet countryside, rarely leaving the land they till, can understand what the homecoming of Walter meant to his parents. But the round of gaiety and life was fast driving his love for home from Walter. His town friends looked upon the country as a “dead-and-alive hole,” as one gentleman expressed it. - “Didn’t you find it a beastly bore living in the country P” one of his friends asked, a®, in company with several men, Walter sat in the smoking-room of a club he had joined. - “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “It is very nice in the country if you like the life.' It is quiet, of course.” “Ya-as; that sort of thing is all right for bumpkins and that kind of people—what?” drawled Guy Winter, the man who had put the previous question to Walter. “Can’t make out how people live without the halls and theatres and dances, and all that sort of thing, donoherknow.” “Oh,” replied Walter, flushing as he spoke, “my people get along very happily without that sort of thing.” “Ya-as; but your people live in decent style, of course, and give house parties—what P” The thought of Mr and Mrs Lidiard giving house parties in the quaint old farmhouse brought a smile to Walter’s face but he speedily checked it as he

gazed on the questioning faces around him.

All unknown to him, this conversation had been deliberately led up to, fop there had been considerable curiosity amongst his frieiids as to what sort of family Walter had come from.

“You know,” one of the men said, “we don’t know much about young liidiard. He keeps his people beastly dark. Perhaps they’re awful bounders, dress in corduroys, and smoke clay pipe®; sort of people who’d touch their hats to you.”

“leather,” returned another. “I reckon we ougnt to know something about his people; perhaps his father isn’t a gentleman.”

Righteous horror was written on all faces as this suggestion was put- forward. The definition of a gentleman as accepted by these young men was soiAe one who dressed well, had plenty of money, and who spoke with the approved drawl. So this tittle pitiful trap had been set for Walter, and all unconsciously he had walked into it. He found Guy Winter’s question anything but easy to answer. All his London friends were well off as regards monetary matters, and always did the correct thing, according to the fashionable world.

Mentally be contrasted hi© father and mother with his London friends. A! vivid picture of their simple life and habits, and their homely, countryfied appearance, came before his eyes. What was he to say ? he wondered, for he saw how interestedly the others were waiting for his reply. All these thought® and a myriad others flashed through his brain in a few seconds. Then the temptation came to him, and he yielded. “Oh. of course,” he replied. “I must take some of you chaps down home pne of these days; we generally have a house party at Christmas. You will find it interesting, I should think, there are plenty of horses to ride, and billiards for those who do not care for outdoor exercises.”

Hi© reply apparently satisfied the questioners, and, once embarked on this course, Walter found it very easy to continue. He spoke of hunt breakfasts, county balls; mentioned the titled people in the vicinity of his home as though, they were close friends; told stories of stag hunts on Exmoor, and altogether proved himself to be clearly cut out for a writer of fiction.

Of course, all that he said was repeated, and. like the rolling snowball, it became larger the further it went. Mr Lidiard was a baronet, a squire, a magistrate, and what not. Walter was the heir to a magnificent estate and untold wealth.

So things went on until Christmas dresv near, and then Walter found it necessary to have a contagious disease at his home, so that there would be no house party to invite his London friends down to.

It must not be imagined, that Walter revelled in this deceit; far from it. His conscience gave him little rest. But he felt that there could be no retraction, now, and his only way of escape would, be to seek fresh fields. As he got more and more familiar with his gilded friends, he gradually grew to care less for them. He began to see through their thin veneer of

fashion* and to recognise thorn for what they wej#. - . : i n ■ ' ' • But at last there came a reason that prevented him leaving his present surroundings, and the reason was Miss Molly Cardew, with whom Walter had fallen head over ears in love.

Molly Gardew was a pretty girl of •ome twenty-one summers. In appearance she was fair, with violet eyes, and masses 1 of nut-brown, curly hair. Furthermore, she was an orphan, living alone with her aunt, a maiden lady of numerous winters and all the rest of the seasons.

Most of the men were in love with Molly, or fancied they were, but it was evident that any preference she had was shown to Waiter Lidiard. Together they would go for long rambles over the heath and the surrounding country. But they went pureSfy- as friends, for nothing had been said between them of any stronger feeling. But the stronger feeling existed, and both of them knew, it, yet each wondered if the o-hor cared in more than a friendly fashion. It was the old game of love, played first at cross purposes. Talked over by everybody who knew of it and whose business it did hot-happen to he. Known to those most concerned, but yet never spoken of-.

Following the Christmas when the contagious disease had so unfortunately Upset the house party came- a beautiful spring. Down in Somersetshire Nature garbed itself in its glorious mantle, and the sunshine came into the hearts of the old people at the farmhouse, and prompted them to take a step of appalling magnitude.

“Wife,” said Mr Lidiard, “I’ve got an idea.”

“What is it, John?” asked Mrs Lidi- _ looking from a letter she was writing to Walter. “Why, you just tear that letter up, and we’ll go up and see our lad selves.”

“John!” cried Mrs Lidiard, in amazement. '

“I mean it, hiss, ” said the- farmer. “We’ll pay ’un a surprise visit. We’ve never been to Lunnon, and this’ll be main" fine, an’ won’t the boy be surprised.”

Mr Lichard had his own way, and the following Saturday saw the two old people, attired in their best Sunday bl'ack clothes, bound for Lo don. .

At King s Cross, however, they speedily got a train to Hisrhgate, and they breathed sighs of relief as they stepped out of the station and commenced to climb the hill.

As it happened, that day there had been a tennis tournament, and Walter Lidiard, in company with Molly Cardew and several of his friends, were proceeding homewards. Suddenly Walter’s eyes became fixed on two approaching figures, and his heart gave a quick lump, whilst a wave of apprehension swept over him.

At that moment Mr Lid-aril and his wife—for it was the old couple themeelves—stared at He grout), and recognised their bov. A glad proud smile of welcome come their faces, and they advanced towards the approaching party. Hardly knowing what he was doing, "Walter clutched at Mollv’e arm, and walked quickly across Hie ’-oad, the rest of his friends behind. “See those queer old cards,” said one of the men. “Looked as though they thought they knew some of us. Looked just Eke pictures out of a scrap-book, didn’t they?’ he added, with a laugh. A hot flush ' of indignation rose to Walter’s face, but he restrained himself, and forced back the words that rose to his lips. How could he tell them the truth? His mind was in a whirl, and he walked on rapidly, replying to questions in an abstracted manner, the party being bound for Guy Winter’s bouse to spend the remainder the evening.

Farther down the road the old people were standing,: staring piteously after them.

“Seems we ain’t wanted, lass,” muttered the old farmer, with a queer feeling in his throat. “Perhaps he didn’t see us, John,” said Mrs Lidiard. her loving heart torn with grief. . .“Nay, lass, he saw us,” replied Mr liidiard. “I caught his eye n’ marked him go red n’ then he turned away. We ain’t good enough for him, wife. Still, we’ll go along an’ see what his home "be like, shall we?” ‘Yes, John,” answered his wife, taking his arm as she spoke They experienced a certain amount

of difficulty with Walter’s landlady, but eventually they were admitted into his living room. They said that they would wait his return, but their real intention was to go so soon as they had seen their boys’ home. “Don’t see the picture of the old farm that the lad took to hang up in his room,” muttered Mr Lidiard.

“No,” murmured the old farmer, “we ain’t wan fed any longer.” He broke down as he said- these words, and a few tears trickled down his worn face. In a moment his wife was by his side, comforting him as only g, woman can. Not far away, at Guy Winters’ house, a very different scene was ensuing. One of the members of the tennis party insisted on recounting the episode that had occurred during the walk home. “I’m. sure they knew one of you,” he cried, laughing the while. “Which was it? Some one’s father and mother from the workhouse, eh? Perhaps they were your, Lidiard.”

A shout of laughter followed this remark, for it was appreciatetd as a very rich joke. But it died away suddenly, as Walter, pale as death, jumped to hire feet and faced the merrymakers with flashing eyes. He felt he could no longer live this living lie, and he recognised bow infinitely superior his father and mother were to any of his well-dressed friends, with oiie exception. “Yes,” he cried; “they were my father and mother.”

The laughter broke out again, but he speedily stopped it. <r No, I am not joking,” he said firmly. “They were my own parents, and I was cad enough to slight them, so that you might not know.” “Since I have known you,” he continued. “I have grown to despise myself for giving you false impressions) of my family. But I knew that if you were told the truth you would shun me- as you would a loathsome disease. My father is a poor farmer, and earns his living by his toil. Now you know, and I wish to Heaven you had not made me such a cad.” . ,

The faces around him had undergone a mixture of expressions as 'Walter delivered this tirade. Scorn, astonishment, and anger had all been, evident. “Now I am going,” continued .Walter —“going to beg my parents’ pardon; and I suppose you trill prefer not to know me in the future.”

He looked around, but there was no reply. “I thought as much,” he said, with a short laugh ; then he went from their presence.

“What a beastly outsider!” cried Guy Winter. “Jolly good riddance to him, I say—what?” The others chorussed their assent, with one exception, and that was Molly Oardow. She rose to her feet, and faced the assembled guests. “Whatever you have made Mr Lidiard,” she cried, “at least he has proved himself to' be the only gentleman amongst you.:’ Ere they had recovered from their astonishment Molly had gained the door and was gone.

Meanwhile, with rapidly beating heart. Walter had gained admittance to his lodgings,., and, opening the door of his sitting-room, he entered. He stood facing his father and mother, their sad faces bringing a quick stab to his heart. There he stood in silence for a moment, until he slowiy went across to his mother and knelt before her. In a moment the mother’s love triumphed, and she clasped the erring boy to her. His father came by him and took his hand in silence. Then Walter told them the whole sorry story of his deceit, and what the end of it all had been.

“Now I’ve no one but you,” he said, a big lump rising in his throat at the thought of Molly. Then came a knocking at the door, and then a figure entered. It was Molly Cardew. For a moment Walter gazed in unbounded astonishment. Be could hardly believe his eyes, but his heart gave a quick, mad leap that sent the blood surging through his veins and set his pulses tingling.

“Molly!” he cried. “Is that you ?” “I came up without being announced,” she replied, a glad smile on her sweet face. “I just followed you, Walter.”

He crossed the room, hesitated a second, then bent and kissed her lips. Then he led her to his father and mother, who took her to their hearts. Such was the awakening of Walter Lidiard.