A SUMMER LOVE STORY

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1797, 15 August 1906, Page 5

A SUMMER LOVE STORY

(By Clifton Bingham)

The scene was the “Sheridan” theatre, and the final curtain had just fallen on the first night production of “The Daisy Days,” a new comedydrama from the pen of Cyril Graham, for whom the whole house was enthusiastically calling. Again and again the curtain rose, but what the audience wanted, and demanded in stentorian voice, was the author.

The manager came forward, was listened to for a moment, and was then almost hissed off. From every part of the house came cries of “Author! Author!”

Suddenly, a dead silence. The leading lady, to whose superb acting much of the succeed of the play was due, came to the footlights. A strange hush fell on the perturbed and delighted audience. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” she said, in clear tones, audible all over the theatre; “Mr Graham will speak two words to you—no more. He is ill, overstrained.”

Again the house rang with cheers, which died away as the successful playwright came on the stage. He stood before the footlights, Vera Tremaine watching him from the wings. He strove to speak, but could not even utter the two -words she had promised on his behalf. He was swaying visibly, and she started forward, as though she feared lie would fall. As he stretched, in silence, his hands out to that awaiting throng, lie swayed again, and fell—fell prone and senseless on the boards that had brought him triumph! * * * It was a fortnight later that Cyril Graham learnt what had happened that night, and even then it was in the guarded tone and language of hi® doctor and old college chum Feilding who' had been in the “Sheridan” on tho first night of “The Daisy Days,” and had been one of the first to come to liis aid.

“Piece—Splendid. Full every night. The notices—Rattling, every one of thbm! Now, lie down again, and don’t get excited. You’ve been as near brain fever as you - can be, and now you want to see if you can have it really. Lie down, I tell you!” Graham smiled faintly and obeyed. “I fainted, didn’t I?” he said.

“Yes,” said Feilding, curtly; “and I’m here to take care you don’t do it any more!” “I’m better this morning!” “Yes, you are. Ais soon as you can travel.you are going into the country. I have made all the necessary arrangements, and all you have to do is to get strong enough, as fast- as you can, to get away into fresh air.” “You seem to have fixed everything up,” said Graham smiling. ‘Yes, you are going to a cottage in a village on the top of a high hill in Sussex, miles from a theatre, as well as from pen and ink! And if you dare to think of the one, or touch either of the latter for a month, I’ll ” “Well—what?” queried the patient, as Feilding hesitatetd. “Make Aubrey take off. ‘The Baisv Days’ at once !”

“Frightful threats!” murmured' his friend.

Hence it was that the middle of June found Cyril Graham, one lovely morning in the month of roses, standin the village street of West Cotely, in Sussex, gazing at a garden of roetes. Not a stiff and formal gardener’s garden of them, but a wilderness. He was so enraptured that he failed to notice that by standing immediately in front of the wicket-gate of thte garden he was preventing the entrance of a pretty fair-haired girl at liis side. A half-inaudible “please” recalled him from his dreams.

“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, opening the gate; “but I have nevr in my life seen snob, a garden.” “They are very beautiful, Dad’? roses,” said the girl with a smile. “I am glad you admire them. He is so pleased when anyone does so.” Cyril Graham looked at the speaker, and thought to himself that “Dad” had one rose more beautiful than all the others. But he would not have spoken the thought for world®. “A June rose herself,” he thought, as ho lifted his hat as she passed Tip the narrow path and disappeared from sight. Hie had been in West Cotely three days, and as he jokingly told his buxom landlady, “judging by liis appetite, wad completely cured!” He slept like the proverbial “top,” and avowed that lie never felt so well in his life, even already. • “What lovely rosds there are at a tiny cottage the other side of t-ho road,” he said to his landlady that evening.

“That they be, sir!” exclaimed the dear, garrulous old soul,; only too glad to hear her own voice; “that be Doctor Phillip’s ’obby, roses, and they do say he grows some of the finest for miles around.” “So I should think.” “And he’s that there proud of them, too, he won’t cut one for anybody.” “Would that be his daughter I saw to-day,” said Cyril, half musingly. It was not the first time that he had thought of that “June rose” he had seen that morning. “Mists Rose! that’s her, sir.” “Rose!” thought Cyril Graham, with a quiet smile. “His daughter, she is, and a sweeter maid never wore shoo leather! I doubt me which he loves best, his Rose or his roses!” Cyril got up and went for a eJtroll which naturally enough led towards the roses. Fortune, as lie said afterwards, favoured him. The doctor was in the garden, surrounded by his 1 “children” as he called them. Cyril paused at the gate, hesitated, and then raising his hat, murmured a few words of praise and compliment. The doctor came to the gate, beaming all over libs jolly country face. “As you say, I ought to be proud of them, and I am. Look at this one! The perfection of colour and shape. Ail! there is more beauty in a rose than in any other thing in the world. Art! What picture was ever like that? Poetry! Could the laureate himself de- . scribe it?”

Cyril smiled acquiescence. Hie realiesd that lie had fairly set the doctor off on hid hobby. “Game inside and see them,” said the old boy; “you’re a Londoner, and if you have ever seen better roses even there, Fm a Dutchman.” “I am —and I never have,” replied Cyril, accepting the cordial invitation, and he stopped into the garden just as the doctor’s daughter appeared at the door of the cottage. She returned his salutation with a smile.

“This id the gentleman, dad, who was so lost in admiration of your roses this morning that he kept /.e waiting in the road,” she said mischl wously. When the roses had been thoroughly and jointly praised, ditfcussi.il. ami ex-

patiated upon, he spoke a little of himself.

“The author of The Daisy Days’ at the ‘Sheridan’!” exclaimed the doctor, while his daughter looked at Graham with a mingled expression of awe and interest on heir pretty face; “why, that is the great play of the season! Everyone is raving about it, and you are the author of it. Good gracious !** And the genial old man almost forgot his beloved roses) in bis pleased surprise. Cyril modestly explained the reason of liis exile from London to the wilds of West Cotely. “You don’t look like an invalid, Mr Graham,” said the girl, gazing at him with her blue eyes full of interest. “Not he!” chimed the doctor.

“And I have only been here three days,” quoth Cyril laughing, “and, after all, I am not so out of the world as I thought I should be.” “Oh, we do get dome newspapers up here now and then, and there is a railway station down there,” pointing to the valley below, “and ” “And you’re a chatter-box,” said the doctor; ‘“and we are keeping this invalid standing all this time. Come inside, Mr Graham, and have a cigar.”

Alas! That month passed too soon, and w/orked havoc with Cyril Graham’s hitherto invulnerable heart.

Had he gone unscathed through all the love-perils of London, to lose hia heart at last to a “June Rose” in a little country village? It seemed wonderfully like it, Cyril confessed. Evenings spent with the genial old doctor over a cigar, with Rosie flitting about tho garden like a sprite in the twilight, drew him yet more deeply into the toils. Did he love her? He resolved, as others have done before him and will to the end of time, to wait awhile. He would see if thia love that had awakened in his heart would stand the test of time and Reparation".

He was scrupulously careful not to speak one word that might lead the “June Rose” to think that he cared for her. He would at least be a mam of honour.

So when he said “good-bye” at last, it was with a promise to visit them in the autumn, a smile and a clasp of hands, and a rose in his ooat, pinned there by fingers of whose trembling he was blissfully ignorant. “Sllie does not care,” he said in the train ; “why should I spoil her bright life? It is not fair; wait until Igo down again in September.” So Cyril Graham went back to town refreshed, to find old friends, old haunts, Vera Tremayne, ‘The Daisy Days” the dnooess >of the year. But he often thought of West Cotely and the garden of roses. Somehow London was hot and stuffy, and every day it grew more unbearably so. Often be was sorely tempted to break bis promise to himself and run down to West Cbtely. But Cyril Grarham was a man who prided himself on bis decision, power of will—.obstinacy, it might also be styled. No, he would wait the self-allotted time, so he never went.

Vera Tremayne was as charming and as clever as ever. But Cyril had found out that, much as he admired her, lie was decidedly hot in love with her. He had to confess at last that he was in love with a sweet “June Rose.” But even then he would not write bo her or go and see her. No, lie rope ated, lie would wait. * * *

it, had been July 20th when he left West Ootely: it was the same date in September when he returned there, bis heart eager and impatient, wondering and yearning.

Time had answered the question “did lie love her?” in no uncertain manner, now lie was burning to hear her reply to the question “did she love him?” Would it he yes? or no? He climbed the long steep hill from

the station, taking in his impetuous hfl£}te the stoepea* hut shorter way over the fields. He would not stay to go to his old rooms first—the talkative old woman there would only detain him with uninteresting gossip. He did not know that it would have saved him a shock that almost unmanned him to tears. For, going straight to the cottage of the rosefe, he stared aghast at it, and caught his breath. There was a “To Let” board at the gate, the cottage was tenantless, the roses dead, and the garden neglected and uncared for! He laughed at himself for his fears. They had only moved, of course. He would, go to his old landlady. She would know where the Doctor had gone:' Trying to buoy himself up with thifi hope, yet with an impalpable fear still tugging at his heart strings, he went to his old rooms. “Lordy, but what a turn you have given me!” exclaimed the good old soul; “and there aint a thing in the house fit to eat, and your rooms is all of a—• —” “Yes, never mind. Tell me—where is the doctor?” Mrs Hollybone sat down with an amazement on her fat face. “Don’t you know?” she said. “Know? Of course I don’t! How o,n earth should I?” . "He’s dead —dead) and buried thus good two months!” It was Cyril’s turn to sit down now. “And Rosie?” he asked, hoarsely; “where is she?” “Oh don’t ye take on, sir!” said Mrs Hollybone; “you see, the doctor died sudden in the night, and there wasi no money, and some distant relations came down, and took Miss Rose away with them after the funeral, and the goods was sold off. I did hear as how they was all gone to America or Australia, or somewhere® very fair off-” Cyril Graham buried his face in his hands. How he reviled the folly of his procrastination now ! But he would track her, follow her, find her! If it cost him a fortune, nay a dozen fortunes, he would find her, even were she at the uttermost ends of the world. Bit by bit he learnt from Mrs Hollybone how some relatives named Marchmont had come down, hurriedly summoned, and had taken the doctor’s forlorn and orphan daughter back to London with them when all was over. More than this Mrs Hollybone did not., know, nor did anyone in West Ootely know where the Marehmonts had gone, or even wnhere they lived. Cyril descended the long hill to the station, feeling as though all the world had suddenly tumbled about his ears. An hour and a quarter to wait for the next train to London did not improve matters. He felt as though ©very minute wasted meant another hundred miles between him and the girl he loved —and was going to find. But how? That wasi the question. It certainly deemed hopeless, but Cyril would not let himself think so, though it was not easy to hope. He smoked furiously all the way, and. on arriving at Victoria, after a journey that seemed to him' to take weeks instead of hours, he jumped into a hansom and drove at once to Ted Fielding. _ That imperturbable medico listened to bis narrative interestedly. “What can I do?” demanded Cyril, when he had finished his story. - “Advertise,” suggested Fielding. “And she may never see the advertisement!” “Everything was sold, you say. Who held the sale, and who were the solicitors in the matter? Muflb have been some ■” .

Cyril sprang to his feet. “What a fool I am!” he ejaculated. “See you to-morrow.” “Here —where are you going?” “Back —back to West Ootely!” cried Cyril. And before Fielding could say another word he had gone. He caught a train at Victoria, having just time to snatch a hurried lunch, and in due course arrived at Grin stead Junction. Here, having thought over his 'plans, he got out, and proceeded to interview" the station master, who in reply to his question gave him the name© of the principal local solicitors. This obtained, off he set, happier than he had "been for some few hours. The first firm knew nothing of the matter, but referred him, guardedly, to the other side of the road. Here he was more lucky, as by happy chance ho bit upon the solicitor who had acted for the auctioneers. “And can you tell me where the Marchmonts and Mis© Phillips are?’ he asked, after he had told his story, with as much reserve and as little incoherence as lie could muster. “I can.” The speaker turned out a letter file, and after some searching found what he wished. “They sailed,” he said, “for Adelaide on the 18th of August, by the And he shut up the file and beamed through his glasses upon poor Cyril as if he thought he had done him the greatest service in the world. “Adelaide!” gasped Cyril; “South Australia!” “They would arrive there,” said the solicitor, pleasantly, “about the first of October.” “And there address there?” “Ah! Now I cannot aid you, Mr

Graham. You (Soo, everything was settled before they left, paid up. and arranged. Had it not been so, it might have been a breach of professional etiquette on my ’part to have given you any information with regard to my clients. But, of course ” ‘"Thank you, Mr Hunt. But where would it be possible for me to- ” “To obtain- rt? Possibly they may have left some addtress "with the Orotava Company.” “I will go therei at once,” said Cyril starting up impetuously as though the company’s offices were just round the cornel*. Half way to the door ho paused. “Is that place for sale?” he asked. “The Cottage? Yes, Mr Graham, it is.” “How much? Oh, never mind that. I will buy it. Write to my solicitor about it—l will instruct him, as I shall not be in London.” For the second time that day Cyril Graham arrived at Victoria Station. This oime he drove straight to the Orotava Company, where luck smiled upon him the first time that day, for the Marehmonts had left their Adelaide address behind, and after some delay it was handed to him. Recklessly regardless of expense, ho cabled to the girl he loved that he was coming out to see her by the next boat, in which he had previously taken a berth, and then, without letting the grass grow under his feet, he went to hid solicitor, whom he startled over h is. afteir-d in ner coffee.

“Buy that property for me, have it quite restored) to order, and inirtal Mrs Hollybone there as housekeeper until I return,” were His brief instructions. “Where are you going?” “Only to Australia,” was the cool reply, as if it had been just across the road. “But the cost ” “Never mind, Tire Daidy Days’ will run for a year, and I can stand it.” The oild solicitor smiled; he had known Cyril from babyhood. “I suspect there is a lady in the case ” “Very likely, good-bye.” When Cyril reached Doctor Fielding’s rooms he threw himself, done up, into an easy chair. “Pm going to Australia,” he said. “When ?” “Day after to-morrow.” Then he told his friend what he had done. “ I didn’t think it was in you to become a man of impulse so l suddenly!” “Man of action, you mean. You will never find me procrastinate again,” was Cyril’s heartfelt reply. “I’ll come to see yon off,” said Fielding, and he did. s . * Cyril Graham’s fellow passengers were puzzled at his strange aloofness all that long journey, but they put it down to the eccentricity of genius and very considerately let him alone. He toiled at his new play, smoked incessantly—and thought. What would his “June Rose” say to him. What would she look like, an English rose transplanted to Australia ? Now and again a chill struck into his heart. Supposing she said “No!” But this despondent mood did not last long. At last, early in November, he stood

on Australian soil, and a few days later face to face with the girl ho had come all these thousands of miles to woo. “Sweeter than ever,” was his first thought, “hut a white rose now. She trembled a little as she rose to meet him. He grasped both her hands in his own and kissed them without a word. Tho white rose became a blush rose in an instant. “My ‘Juno Rose,’” lie said, “I have come all this way to ask you to be my wife. I love you !” And the Rose’s reply was to let him fold his arms about her, and kiss her lips, her cheek, her hair. “I loved you from the first,” she whispered, shyly, later on. “So did I you, but I did not knew it Will you forgive me?” “Hush, Cyril.” • * « B In spite of her father’s recent death, they were married within a month, and 1 ‘spent their honeymoon on the. wide ocean. On the eve of the wedding, Cyril drew from his pocket an envelope, and asked his sweetheart to open it. In it was a withered rose. “The one you gave me, heiloved.” When thely arrived in London lie took his bride straight to the cottage at West Cotely. Though the; roses were dead, the garden was radiant with autumn bloom, and Mrs Hollybone beamed a cheerful welcome upon them. “What does this mean ?” said Rose, laying her little hand on her husband’s arm. “This hi my wedding present to you,” lie said. Tears of happiness and remembrance mingled came into her uplifted eyes. “How good you are!” she murmured. “Come,” he replied, and opened the gate at which he had stood so long ago, and his “June Rose” came home. There, happy, let me leave them.