SHORT STORIES. TIMOTHY. (For the Witness.)

Otago Witness, Issue 2631, 17 September 1902, Page 74

SHORT STORIES. TIMOTHY. (For the Witness.)

(By Matxd Newman.)

Jeanetta had been in the townsnip for more than a week before Timothy saw her.

Timothy kept a boot shop, which was so stupendous a tall man could stand upright in it, and which was roomy enough to hold tmro stools and a. broken-down chair for the use of customers. It was chiefly the neighbours, however, looking in for a chat, who occupied the stools and infirm chair. Trade was not particularly brisk for Timothy in that inland township. Competition and lack of principal for an outlay are serious obstacles in th-j path to riches. Bat if times were bad, no one would have guessed- it from Timothy's cheerful demeanour. His laughter was the gayest and !his/jokes the wittiest of all the young men «r the gray-bearded fathers who daily looked in on their way to work He fascinated *ha children too — the ragged, bare-legged ihappy urchins who played upon the road,way with empty kerosene tins and penny 'whistles, and they lovad to crowd round bis doorstep aud watch the htfcle bootmaker hammer nails into Jim Wilson's boots or Eiut a patch on Sarah Jones's mother's hoes And sometimes Timothy wouid ihrow them a handful of "sweeties' from a secret Bupply he kept in Li 6 counter drawer and fcid them "begone," at which they would return to their play with a shout that made the street ring. He was a miniature Father Christmas, with his gray beard and ruffled gray hair, bis sparkling brown eyes and smooth, ruddy icheeks, that glowed with the benevolence be maintained towards his fellow creatures. The day Jeanetto came into the shop Timothy was alone. The sun had been ■hining through the cobwebbed little window upon his work, and his eyes were so 'dazzled with the glare, ho saw but a slim Blip of a girl, with reddish hah- Then, (when his eyes cleared, he perceived a pair 'of deep gray eyes looking at him intently — appealing eyes, something like those of a favourite dog he had owned years before •nd which he had been obliged to shoot. i "Mrs Wilson would like you to do tfeddyV boots," she said, "so that they'll last him for the winter." Timothy took the boots — a &ilo,pidated fair, with heels worn down and soles /through to the last thickness, and scanned them narrowly • "Very well, miss, I'll put them right Mrs Wilson, .did you say?" " • The girl coughed violently, and nodded lier head. Timothy, after another glance »it lier", noticed her face was thin, and looked 'smaller than it was in reality on account ,of the mass of reddish gold hair ,that shaded it. He wondered what that hair •would look like with the sunshine playing upon it. He conjured tip a picture of new sovereigns and powdered gold dust. "It's a<nice day," he remarked. The girl nodded again, as the fit of coughing still made her speechless. She leaned against the counter wearily. Timothy pulled forward the brokendown chair. "Take a seat," he said. "It's «. steep climb up the hill." She thanked him, and sat dom>. There was a short silence. "The winter weather has t»et in now,' he remarked. "Have you been here long?" "Ten days," she answered. "It's not a good time to tome for a holiday," he ventured. "I haven't come for a holiday," she replied; "I've come home." Timothy loked at her in emprise. He could not recollect her face, yet he had been here for nearly ten years, and knew everyone. She saw something of curiosity in his eyes, and answered his unspoken question. "My home is here. Mrs Wilson is my stepmother. You don't remember Jeanetta .Wilson, I suppose?" Her gray eyes twinkled at Timothy's embarrassed face. "You don't mean to say you are Willie .Wilson's girl," he exclaimed. "Why not.'" laughed the girl. ''I'd never have known you. Why — irhy " His amazement cut him short. "Yes, I've grown a bit since the days I Bsed to pass your door on the way to Ichool." "To think of it!" ejaculated Timothy, •till overcome by surprise, "and I never recognised you ! Where have you been all these years?" "In service part of the time, and for a year in a woollen mill down south, but I've bad to come home 'or a rest." Timothy nodded comprahendingly. "You'll find things are jogging along in much the same way as ever they did," he remarked. "Yes, it's just the same sleepy place," she replied, "only the people have changed — crown older, and gone away, or are dead. The children are quite different, and " She broke off with another fit of cosgh•■jßg — long-drawn, weary coughing. Timothy turned away to his bench. The sound of that cough smote a chord of memory that was preluJe to a melody in fc minor key. He remembered two green graves far away north, where his wife and icnly child lay asleep. "You must take care of yourself," he ■aid geatly, leaning over the counter. The girl looked at him foi a moment. 9?hen her eyes rested on the suiilit street. "That's what my employer said, what the jdoctor said, and what Jack is always telling me ; but what does it matter?" She ended hurriedly. Timothy looked at her scrutinLsingly. She looked very fair, very fragile, and in her eyes there lurked a nameless something, which was past the quick-witted man's comprehension. "But you ought to look after that cold," he said* "for Mrs Wilson's sake — for the childi«a'« ttk«."

A bitter smila played round her mouth, and her eyes flasned*. Then the fire died away, and she sighed. "I don't think she cares very much what happens to me," she said. "She would be pleased to see me off her hands — married and away from fere." Timothy smiled. "But you've only just conu home, and, besides, you hays always kept yourself," he said cheerfully. The girl looked at him "ntently, as if wondering whether she could trust him. Something in his kind eyes drevf her on to speech. ''I've either to get a place or get married, ' she said slowly, while the colour dyed her cheeks. "And Jack is going out with the next contingent, and — and — somehow I feel too tired to work.' She rose to go, but Timothy detained her. ''Who is Jack?" he a«ked. "Jack and I are engaged," she flashed back, with very bright eyes ; '"he is a farmer down s-outh. " The next moment she had gone. Timothy remained leaning over the counter for quite a quarter of an hour, looking out into the street. "P,oor cKild !'' he muttered to himself as he resumed his work. •.. ' » • Timothy made Jack's acquaintance two days later. It was barely 5 o'clock, but the winter evening had drawn in quickly, and it was almost dark. The ruddy-cheeked .bootmaker was poring over his patching by the .light of a kerosene lamp, swung up by 'an iron loop on the wall, when the street door was pushed open, and an icy breath of wind and Jack came in. He was a well-built, sunburnt young man of about 24, with honest blue eyes and hair of a nondescript shade of yellow. His suit was of tweed, and he wore a brown felt j hat. I "Can you tell me where Mrs Wilson j lives?' 1 he asked. .] Timothy looked up interestedly. . "Yes ; go down the hill there, and pass a. bunch of poplar trees near a gate ; on, past the Golden Nugget, and three doors i from the river you'll see a square-looking house with a flower garden. That's Mrs Wilson's." * "Thanks ; three doors from the river?" "Yes, three' doors." There was a pause. "Ive just come up in the coach," remarked the young man, who was disposed to be communicative. "It would be a cold drive." remarked Timothy; "it feels like snow." " "Twas cold," answered the young man ; then after a moment's^ hesitation he said, "Is Miss Jeanetta Wilson with her stepmother just now, or has she gone to work?" A light ot comprehension dawned in the bootmaker's eyes. "She is still here. Are you" Jack?" His eyes twinkled -' "Yes, I'm Jack Orr," replied the young man in surprise. Timothy laughed. "She told me about you the other day ; I've known Jeanetta for years. But, bless my soul, I didn't recognise her when she came home. ' The young man laughed a laugh that was not quite satisfied. What young man is not jealous of him who has had a longer acquaintance with his beloved than he has himself ! "Are you up for long?' asked Timothy. "Only for a few days,' answered Jack ; "and then I go off with the contingent." "Just so; she told me that," remarked Timothy, as Jack went out of the shop. Timothy had his meals at the Sandpiper, across the street ; but he slept in the tiny room behind his shop — a room that was half the dimensions of the street frontage. It held a sti etcher, a deal table, a wa.sh&tand. and a chair. Above his bed hung a faded print of Christ on the Cioss ; upon the opposite wall, where his eyes and the light of dawn could see it first, hung a photograph of his dead wife. A pile of books and old magazines indicated Timothy's evening amusement. A few days after Jack's appearance at the township the bootmaker took a stroll down the hill towards the river when the hours of work were over. It was a wet night, with intermittent gleams of moonlight, that broke through the murky banks of cloud and made the pavements and roads glisten like silver. The river looked like a steel thread drawn across the black darkness. Timothy walked over the brow of the lull, contentedly puffing at his pipe. The ! windows of the Golden Nugget were ablaze with light, and through the open door came the sound of a violin, scraping an obbligato to a piano. He passed by, with a nod to several loafers on the threshold. A cough fell upon his ear. He paused. It came again— from the direction of a gate ahead of him. He walked on, and in the moonlight recognised Jeanetta and Jack. Her face was turned to the light, and he could see every featm-e and every shade of expression. He gave a violent start when he saw it. It was unlike anything he had seen for years. The radiance of her eyes, tin sweetness of her contented smiles, stirred Timothy's heart with an emotion that had died with his wife. He hurried on to the river with a lump in his throat. For a long time he stood watching the current whirl the bubbles of foam away and the moonlight streaks rise and fall on the wavelets. He looked, but saw not. Instead, he saw a red-haired girl's eyes laughing up at another's, and the picture haunted him. Two hours later he repassed the gate ; but the lights of the house were out. and the couple had gone. Yet Timothy could have sworn he heard the sound of a cough m the garden. Perhaps it was, only his fancy. The contingent had left New Zealand for South Africa, and Jeanetta had taken a situation as nursegirl for the day at a house more than a mile from her stepmother's house. The river path teiminated at its gate. The winter lingered on, and «now mantled iiw €«£&• The childieu changed* th,§jy

play into that of snowballing, a^d custom poured in for Timothy. He was quieter I than of old, and people wondered at it. All but the red-haired girl, who had not known him so well as they. He grew restless, too, and was unable to remain at home, reading his well-worn books and magazines, and set out on evening rambles that, in some inexplicable manner, seemed to take him along the river path. It was peculiar, too. that he should meet Jeanetta on hei way home. At first he always had some excuse ready — it was such a fresh night for a walk, or he wanted to see the river by moonlight, or he had to take a parcel to some house, and that was the nearest wa\\ But after a time he ceased to make apologies to make apologies to himself, or to Jeanetta, and each took it as a matter of course that the walk on the river path should not be taken alone. Jeanetta had no thought of any infidelity to Jack, for she regarded Timothy as a very old friend — one old enough to be her father, and one in whom she could placep l ace complete trust and respect. And to Timothy it seemed as if the sky had brightened and life was good. Unconsciously, the girl revealed to him more and more of her home life, her character, *her hopes for the future ; for, when a friendship is rivetted by bands of daily intercourse, it must necessarily mean an indestructible foundation or total collapse. He learned from her — by little gleanings carefully picked up as things to think over when lie had returned to his lonely little rooms — that her life»was not the happiest of lives : her stepmother's temper, the unruly, disobedient children of whom she* had charge, Jack's absence — he learnt them all, and with his increasing knowledge grew the passionate longing ■within him to tell her he loved her, and to win her love. ' But then — there was Jack. And after they had drifted so far that it seemed well nigh impossible for Timothy t-> break up this sweet intercourse without breaking his heart also, there came one night which brought him to the knowledge of how far he had tampered with his honour. They had met on the river path — casually, as was Timothy's wont — and were turning towards the township, when something in Jeanetta's face arrested his attention. "What is it?" he asked, for the girl was deathly white, and her eyes had hollow rings round them. "I don't know," she answered, in a weary way "I am so tired to-night. I feel as if I could drop." "You mustn't do that," said Timothy. "Here is a boulder ; sit down and rest awhile." . But the girl shook her head. "No, I must get home. I am late as it is and my stepmother will be vexed." Timothy looked at her pityingly. Then he pulled her arm through his, holding her hand in his own. He could have stepped on air, to find she did not withdraw it. "Don't mind how much you lean on me," he said gently ; "I am as strong as a horse." "You are very good," she answered. Then, after a short silence, she added, "Did you hear the news about Jack?" Timothy wished all mention of Jack further, but refrained from saying so. • "No." "He has enteric fever — I got a letter from the nurse to-day, written two months ago." Her voice was dull and unemotional. "Jeanetta !" Timothy stopped short and faced her. "Yes,, it's quite true" — the girl was crying now. Timothy's heart gave a leap, and then he inwardly cursed himself for the hope. A chill, as if an icy hand had been laid on him, fell upon his soul, and froze it. "It has beer haunting me all day,' she .said, through her tears. "I'm sure he'll die, and if Jack dies I have nothing to live for." Timothy looked at her with a white, set face. His dream had come to an end — there was nothing but-a deadly monotonous life for him now. What a fool he bad been ! What a coward to try to oust another from his rightful place ! And yet — he had not done it purposely — he had drifted into it blindly. The girl coughed in the night &ir, and Timothy drew her towards home, w-ithout another word until the gate was reached. Then he took the girl's hands in his, and with his soft heart overflowing his eyes he said : "Jeanetta — child — we can but wait and hepe — and if it doe.* — if it does happen that — you are left — you can always count upon me as a fiiend." Jeanetta's smile amply repaid him for what it had cost him to leave unsaid. The_ 'little boys were singing "God save the King "' to the accompaniment of tin cans and penny whistles as they drew up at Timothy's door. But Timothy was cross, or he was ill, for instead of throwing them "sweeties" he shook his head at them, without even half a smile on his round face, so they scampered off to meet the six-in-hand coach. Timothy sighed heavily, and hammered a few nails into a tiny shoe. Then he sighed again. A few more nails. Another sigh, and even as it left his lips a figure in khaki darkened his doorway. "Hullo, Timothy! Hew are you?" ''Jack!" The young man gripped his hand tightly, in a grasp that made him wince.

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"I just dropped in, on my way down the hill. It seems ages since I saw you and everybody here ! It's nearly six months, do you know? And how's everybody?" Timothy's lips twitched. He glanced out into the street, where the little boys had renewed their tin-canning, then back at the soMier. "You've been ill?' he said, laying emphasis upon the pronoun. "Yes, but I'm all right now. They thought I wouldn't pull through, but, you see, a New Zealand constitution wins in the long run.'' "Sometimes" said Timothy quietly. "Nearly always with a soldier," laughed Jack. "I must go now. I'm just going down the hill to see Jeanetta. I suppose she is at home? By the way, she always told me in Ler letters how good you were to her— a perfect father. I can't thank you enough for keeping an eye on her, for, poor old girl, she has a hard time of it with that stepmother of her*. But now I'm home again things will look up for her, I hope " He turned to go, but Timothy's shaking hand detained him. "Well?"' a*ked Jack, as Timothy's white lips could not frame a word. "What in the dickens is wrong with you. man? You're as white as a whitewashed wall! Speak, can't you?" Timothy slowly found words, and they dropped from him in a deliberate tone, as if it had been a lesson he was reciting. "It's Jeanetla !" Jack started, and caught him by the aim. "What?" he asked through his teeth. "She died yesterday morning — early. She sent for me the night before" — there was a light in Timothy's eyes which Jack could not understand — "ehe sent for me, and she said — you were not to grieve — that it was better so '' ' Jack .flung his arm away, and strode out of the shop. Timothy blew his nose violpntiy. Then, before he resumed his endless task of hammering vails into boots other people wore, he walked with a quiet step into the inner room, where hung the faded print of the Crucified One. "Is there any sorrow like unto my sorrow';" he murmured, as he stood transfixed before the Man of Soirows.